


Into the Void

by Tatjna



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:05:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 29,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tatjna/pseuds/Tatjna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a void in Anders' story between his merge with Justice and where we meet him again in Kirkwall.  Learning to live with Justice while on the run can't have been easy.  This is my speculation on how that might have played out. Picks up where his short story leaves off. Gets a bit NSFW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders comes to and realises what he has done. Warning - gore.

_Run!_

Instincts long buried screamed at him. He had to get out of here. Turning, he took three shambling steps before doubling over, the contents of his stomach splashing on the ground in front of him. Dropping to his knees, he clamped his eyes shut as his body heaved until only yellow bile came up, and the world slowly stopped spinning. Finally he opened his eyes, wiping his lips on the back of his hand.

_That is not my hand._

It couldn't be. His hands were for healing, slender and delicate and _clean._ Not red with gore, not bleeding from torn fingernails that had gouged.. oh Maker what was that? He didn't want to know. What he did know was that his hands could not be capable of .. this. And yet, looking around him, he retched again, his body trying to expel the deep knowledge that his mind would not accept.

_You did this._

The campsite lay in disarray, equipment strewn about as if thrown by a truculent child. Off to the left, what remained of the tent lay in a pile, charred struts poking at odd angles from a mass of smouldering canvas, the surrounding trees blackened and smoking. Rocks from the fire had been kicked out of place, steaming and hissing in the dewy grass of early morning. And everywhere was blood and flesh, the sickening stench of ozone filling his nostrils as he coughed in the smoky haze and tried to comprehend what had happened.

  
It was a slaughter. Bodies lay all over the clearing - torn, rent bodies, some missing armour, some missing limbs, piled on top of each other as if torn down and flung aside in the act of fleeing. So many bodies. Three corpses in Grey Warden armour, charred beyond recognition, lay twisted where they had been thrown by a strong fire blast. There were over a dozen Templar bodies as well, identifiable by their flaming sword insignia and their scarlet skirts..

.. or by the stirring of white anger in the back of his mind when his eyes fell on them.

Willing that feeling down with an effort that spiked his head with pain, he stepped forward and forced himself to look more closely. This looked more like the work of a wild animal than a human. Some of the bodies had large gouges in them, the flesh missing. Rolan lay in the centre of the clearing, the last to fall, with his unique steel sword still in his hand and his lifeblood in a puddle on the ground where his head should be. Of his head, there was no sign. In a flash Anders recalled the taste of blood like wine in his mouth, and the sense of _rightness,_ of _justice_ as he had made the Templars pay for their betrayal, made Rolan pay for his betrayal..

He shook his head. Blood like wine? Where did that thought come from? Disgusted, he wiped his hand on his robe, then tentatively touched it to his cheek. It came away red again, and he realised that the metallic taste on his tongue was not just from the taint of blood in the air. There was nothing left in his stomach, but that did not prevent him from retching again. Andraste's flaming tits, this was not what was supposed to happen. How could he? This was all wrong.

_This is not wrong. This is justice._

.. _Justice?_

One of the bodies wore different armour - black armour that seemed to absorb the light, with touches of glowing red on the chestplate. The body lay on its back, hands folded on its chest in an attitude of repose, not part of the carnage around it. Chilled by recognition, Anders squatted beside it and lifted the visor on the helmet. Dead eyes stared blankly at him from a rotting face as a miasma of pungent corruption washed over him. He reeled back and the visor snapped shut with a loud clunk. Kristoff's corpse had certainly been benefiting from Justice's tenancy, and now it.. wasn't. Justice was no longer there. Anders' head pounded harder as if to remind him of his new .. Visitor? Friend? Burden? He didn't know.

Cradling his temples in his hands, he drew mana and cast a small healing spell, diminishing but not completely removing the pain in his head. He suspected that he'd be living with it for a while - after all, Fade spirit possession wasn't a normal illness, and there were no guidelines for recovery. Recovery? There would be no recovery from this. For better or worse - so much worse, he thought, looking around him again at the carnage he had caused in his righteous anger - Justice and he were now one. And it was painfully clear to him that it was not going to be as simple as it had seemed when he had agreed to be a host to the spirit. Even now, in the aftermath of destruction so horrid that it made him ill, knowing it was at his hand, he was torn. Eventually someone would discover this scene and then Templars would hunt him down, yet his natural urge to get away from this place,to run to, hide, was battling with an equally strong desire to let them come, to feel their flesh tear under his hands, to show Justice to all who would lock him in a Tower because of their fear - he could feel the rage swell within him as the morning light began to take on a bluish cast.

No! Not like this. I.. we.. he couldn't just kill all the Templars. They would keep coming, and coming, until he was dead, and the more he killed the more he would have proved them right. They would use him as a reason to make things even worse, an example to silence all who support freedom for mages. There must be a better way, a way to heal things.

_I am a healer._

_I am a warrior._

If only he could think straight!

A gurgling groan came from across the clearing, breaking into his thoughts. Someone was still alive! Jumping up quickly, he hurried toward the sound, unconsciously gathering mana as he ran. Maybe he could save someone, maybe he could make this right somehow! Hope soared, then plummeted as he saw the torn Warden armour, the gaping hole in the man's chest, the blood spreading slowly across the ground beneath him. There would be no saving this man - magic could do much, but it could not replace blood already lost. Kneeling, he poured magic into the man anyway, knowing it was hopeless but wanting to ease his passing. Keeping one hand on the wound, he eased the winged helmet from the man's head. Eyelids fluttered open in a face he recognised.

"Arnaud?" The Orlesian Warden had accompanied him on his last mission with the Warden Commander. His skill with a sword had saved Anders' life on more than one occasion. "Arnaud, it's Anders. I'm here to help you. I can stop the pain... Arnaud?"

Blue eyes focused on his face, then opened wide in horror. The man's body twitched convulsively and he raised his arms, flailing weakly as he tried to push Anders away, legs kicking for purchase in a desperate attempt to escape. Fresh blood poured from his wound. Lips cracked open, showing blood bubbling at the back of the throat as he tried to speak.

"A.. a..."

"Yes, it's Anders. Don't try to talk." Anders leaned closer as the man's movements grew weaker.

"A.. " The hands sank back to the earth as the man took one last deep, gurgling breath.

"Arnaud, I'm so sorry. I..." Anders' voice tailed off as he realised there was no explanation, and no way of making this right. Suddenly the eyelids flew open again, and Arnaud's eyes looked directly into his own, clear and lucid.

" _Abomination!"_

The accusing word was accompanied by a gout of blood expelled with such force that it splashed over Anders' face and neck, soaking his robes and causing him to leap back, wiping frantically at his mouth and spitting to rid himself of the taste, which was not at all like wine. When he looked up again, Arnaud was dead.

Finally, Anders ran.


	2. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders tries to get a handle on what's happening in his head, and has a realisation or two.

 

Later, he could not recall how long he ran, or where. He had vague flashes of tree branches whipping his face, sliding down rocky banks, stumbling headlong into a stream and skinning his elbow. He dimly recalled the changing of the light, shadows falling first one way and then the other, and the dark creeping through the trees until it engulfed him. Still he ran, lungs screaming for breath, legs aching as never before. Each time he slowed, the memory of Arnaud's terror would drive him on again until even the famed Grey Warden stamina failed him and he fell heavily, rolling down an embankment and coming to rest face down beside a small pond.

 

As his breath calmed, he slowly became aware of his surroundings. Apart from the steady drip of the tiny rivulet that fed the pond, there was no sound - not even the usual nighttime rustlings of the forest. His headlong blundering must have scared everything into hiding. He had seen and fought some of the residents of this forest, and for them to be scared of him? He snorted with wry amusement, and breathed in a noseful of loose dirt. Sneezing, he rolled onto his back, groaning with the effort. Even now, he had to fight down the urge to push himself up and keep going. Part of him did not understand this weakness, this desire to simply lay on the ground when he could be taking action. His body should do whatever he willed, always.

 

_I am living flesh, and living flesh must rest._

 

The thought seemed strange. Stubbornly, he tried to push himself up on his elbows. He didn't get halfway before falling back in exhaustion. Yes, he needed to rest. Maybe just for a while.

 

He woke shivering in the chill of early dawn to heavy clouds hanging overhead and the sound of thunder rolling in the distance. There was no way of telling how long he'd been asleep, but his throbbing temples and burning throat told him he needed water - badly. Hunger gnawed at his stomach as well, but that could wait. Water first. He rolled to face the pond, then slowly, agonisingly rose to a sitting position. The amount of pain in just that simple movement took him by surprise. _Everything_ hurt. Even gathering enough mana to wash his body with light healing made his head pound, and while the spell allowed him to move, his muscles ached and he could tell he had wounds in several places. He would deal with that later.

 

He didn't bother standing - in his lightheaded state he would only fall again, and crawling was so much more efficient. He crossed to the small trickle that flowed into the pool. Cupping his hands, he looked down and screwed up his face in disgust. They were coated in crusted blood and dirt, swollen knuckles and torn fingernails making them almost unrecognisable. At least now he knew they were his - and they needed a wash. He didn't want to think about what the rest of him looked like. He bent lower and put his mouth under the trickle.

 

The taste of the clear, fresh water was exquisite and he was surprised at his fascination with the sensation as it slid down his throat. It was quite distracting, and he found himself drinking more just to enjoy it. Eventually his stomach could hold no more and he sat up, eyes drawn to his reflection in the pool. 

 

Amber eyes stared back at him from a face that only barely resembled the one he knew. There was a gouge on one cheek that had swollen the eye partly closed, and matted hair was plastered to the side of his face where it had come loose from its tie. He couldn't tell what colour it was. The narrow jaw, the aquiline nose, they were the same. He needed a shave - he always needed a shave - and he recognised the expressive eyebrows and high cheekbones he'd always been secretly pleased with. Small cuts littered his face and neck where he had clawed his unheeding way through the undergrowth. His earring had been ripped out, leaving a ragged and bleeding wound that was adding to the dark stains that covered his collar. All that blood and dirt! He didn't know, or want to know, how much was his and how much wasn't.

 

Looking down at himself, Anders became aware for the first time of the state of his clothing. Like his face, it bore little resemblance to what he remembered. Dried blood was everywhere, on his bracers and all over the front of his robe, and worst of all, his beautiful feather pauldrons were so encrusted they were ruined. The robe itself was missing large pieces from the bottom, exposing his leg to the thigh, and one sleeve was completely gone. There was a gaping hole in the chest, and to his surprise beneath it was the freshly-healed scar of a deep sword wound, flesh tight and brightly purple. 

 

Gingerly he fingered it, and pain stabbed through him, bringing a flash of Rolan's eyes widening in shock as his expected death blow had no effect, and the memory of his own exultation at his newfound invulnerability. Rolan had turned to run, and he had reached out and torn his head from his shoulders as easily as a child might tear the head from an old toy. Rolan, who had appeared in the Wardens suddenly from the ranks of the Templars. Never officially acknowledged as a keeper, yet always assigned to Anders' party, sharing his rooms, observing him constantly - because mages are dangerous and must be watched. Anders snorted. If Rolan had only known how much his stifling surveillance had contributed to Anders' growing sense of injustice, had driven his decision to .. to do what he had done. And Rolan - poor ignorant, smug Rolan - had not tried to understand when it happened, had not given Anders a chance to gain control. Instead he had brought the Templars down on him at the first opportunity.

 

An old memory arose suddenly in his mind, his own words: "And now they're dead. Such a shame." Uttered sarcastically in another place and another time, a time _before_. Those Templars had been taking him back to the Tower after his seventh escape, and he had been expecting a much worse punishment than a year in solitary this time. Outwardly all flirting and humorous deflection, inwardly seething with anger at being caught yet again, but even more at the system that made all mages into prisoners. He was a man, he should live free, not shackled and enslaved and hunted! It had been darkspawn that killed those Templars, not him, and he had been so relieved to escape the Circle again that flippant words came easily. But.. he shuddered as he realised the callous disregard, the lack of empathy behind those words. Even Templars were people, had had families, dreams, a future..

 

_Something mages are denied._

 

Yes, something mages are denied. An injustice he would fight to put right. But.. not like that. Rolan - that was not justice. That was vengeance - vengeance fuelled by an anger he had hidden, even from himself, that had finally risen up with the power of the Fade spirit and controlled him till he became that.. thing. That thing that killed indiscriminately, tearing at friends and Templars alike - that was as much him as it was Justice, he realised. Oh, Maker! This wasn't how it was supposed to be! We were supposed to work together for the good of all, we were going to bring healing and justice to Thedas. Unbidden, Arnaud's dying face appeared in his mind, covered with terror and blood and .. _Abomination!_

 

_I am Anders the healer!_

_I am Justice, the warrior._

_We are Vengeance._

 

Anders scrubbed angrily at his face as tears sprang unbidden. This was pointless. It was done, and here he was, and crying wouldn't change anything. Anyway, the tears were washing blood into his mouth, reminding him of how badly he needed to clean himself up. But despite his stern admonitions to get himself together, the tears turned to sobs and he sagged to the ground, curling up with arms over his face as his body heaved convulsively. 

 

He had never wanted this! He wanted to help people, not hurt them! What had he done? Were the Templars right, was he inherently evil and a danger to himself and everyone else? He had corrupted Justice into Vengeance and _he had liked it._ As if reflecting his turbulent emotions, the heavy clouds above finally opened and heavy rain pelted down, accompanied by peals of thunder. Deep inside his wretchedness, he didn't notice the rain running over him and mingling with his tears to drip into the fast-forming mud he lay in. Part of him watched amazed from a distance as he cried out the loss of who he had been and the shock of who he had become. It was pathetic, but strangely compelling, this display of cathartic expulsion. 

 

Eventually, his churning emotions subsided as the sobs turned to hiccups and sniffles, then stopped altogether. He rolled onto his back and let the rain wash over him, feeling nothing but a hollow emptiness in his mind. For the first time since he had laid down next to Kristoff's rotting corpse and struck his bargain with Justice, the emotions that had been beating around inside his head like caged animals were quiet. The stillness after so much turmoil was soothing, and the idea of just laying there till the Templars came for him touched the edges of his mind. It would be easy. he could stop running, stop fighting, and soon it would be over. They would not risk him escaping again..

 

_They will not take me again!_

 

The vehemence of the thought shocked him out of his apathy and he leaped to his feet, staring around wildly, rage swelling inside him. He could feel a surge of power run through his body, skin tightening and cracks appearing as if he could not contain such energy. From somewhere came the taste of lyrium, singing sweetly on his tongue.

 

_They will not take me! I will .._

 

His body doubled up heaving, his shrunken stomach finally rebelling against too much water drunk earlier, and he vomited down the front of his robe. Collapsing back into the mud, the blue glow faded from his eyes and he sat dejectedly with his arms around his knees, rocking slightly, until his breath calmed.

 

He couldn't go on like this. This was not sharing, or friendship, or teamwork. He felt like a puppet to the whim of a toddler who couldn't control himself. He had agreed to host the spirit inside his body, not to give his body to use as Justice pleased! Indignantly he swiped at his robes, trying ineffectively to clean them, succeeding only in smearing more mud on himself, and as if the heavens were revelling in his indignity the rain came down harder. 

 

He sighed. He needed to assert himself, to take control - at least enough to ensure his own safety. He could feel part of him - the part he suspected was Justice - flailing around, not knowing what to do with all these sensations, these emotions, this _living._ Everything had an undercurrent of newness and confusion, as if he didn't quite know the proper way to act. He snorted. Hah, that was Justice, master of understatement! Realising that he could determine when thoughts seemed oddly out of place, he wondered whether that meant he could control them. So far, he hadn't been doing very well at that, but this was all new to him too. Maybe with conscious effort, he could still reason with Justice? With himself? It was worth a try, otherwise he would be stuck here raging and crying in a puddle of his own vomit until ..

 

_No. I will not allow it._

 

With an effort of will that made his head pound, he forced the thought of Templars away, then lifted his head and stared around triumphantly. It was a start. Now what?

 

He wanted badly to wash - wrinkling his nose in distaste, he avoided looking down at himself - and he needed to eat. His stomach agreed with a loud gurgle, startling him with its insistence. But first, he needed to put distance between him and the end of the trail he'd left. Luckily the rain was fast washing it away, and showing no sign of letting up. For once he appreciated Ferelden's dismal weather. Holding his robes up more out of habit than any illusion of staying dry, he set off walking down the bed of the creek that flowed from his little pond.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first met Anders, I really didn't like him. Those words - "And now they're dead. Such a shame." And then he tries to flirt with you. I thought he was a sociopath. It was only later - much later - that I realised it might have been a front.


	3. Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders collects himself, says goodbye to his beloved pauldrons, and tries to make a plan.

 

The creek, swelled by the rain, flowed steeply down between rocky banks, and in several places he had to scramble and grab onto reeds to keep his footing. After about two miles though, the terrain became easier and the little creek joined with a larger one that dropped in a series of pools between the trees. 

 

The stench of blood and bile rising from his wet robes decided him - washing was the next priority. Painfully he undressed, noting with satisfaction that he still had his thick leather belt with the pouches of potions attached, and the small silverite dagger that had been a gift from the First Enchanter on passing his Harrowing. Most of the masters had expected him to fail since he paid no attention in class, and he had known of at least one Templar that had arranged to be there for the chance to put him down like a dog if he became possessed, but the test had been surprisingly easy. The desire demon in the Fade had offered him freedom, and he had snorted and replied "Hello, mage? Nobody gives freedom to mages, especially not this one. I'm not buying it. But I do like your outfit.." And he had wiggled his eyebrows at her suggestively. The demon had simply disappeared, and he had awoken blinking in a room full of very surprised Templars, apparently having broken the record for the shortest Harrowing ever. Some of the Templars had not believed he'd been properly Harrowed, but First Enchanter Irving had overriden their objections. The dagger was inscribed with the crest of the Anderfels, and was one of his most treasured possessions. Carefully he placed it to one side. 

 

His robe was filthy and ruined, but apart from his underclothing it was the only covering he had, so he decided that with a good enough wash, it would do for the time being. His boots were dirty but serviceable and besides, he would not get far without them, so they went into the pile with his belt. The pauldrons were beyond saving, and he agonised over what to do with them. Unique and covered in blood as they were he did not want to just leave them behind to be found, even with all this rain. Finally he decided to pluck the feathers and drop them one by one into the water, watching them slowly float away. Some would make it all the way to the coast, others would wash up on the banks of the river - but they would no longer be identifiable as something of his, and would carry his scent away from where he intended to go. When nothing remained but the linen base, he tore it into as small a pieces as he could, and dropped them too into the flow. Sadly he watched the last piece disappear, feeling as if a part of himself went with it.

 

Sighing, he walked naked into the stream - then quickly backed out, gasping and hopping around in shock. Maker, that was cold! Shaking his head, he berated himself for his lack of fortitude. He was used to bathing in cold water, but it was as if he were feeling it for the first time. He supposed that in some ways, he was. Gingerly, he forced himself to step into the water until he was waist deep, then sat down. The downstream water quickly turned cloudy and reddish as he scrubbed himself thoroughly with handfuls of gravel, taking special care with his hands and face, and dunking his head several times to clean his hair. When he emerged carrying his newly-clean clothing, his skin was pink with scrubbing and there was no trace of yesterday's gore. Several large bruises and one nasty-looking cut were now visible. Wringing his clothes out as best he could and placing them to one side, he sat on a rock and set to work healing his various wounds.

 

***

 

The warmth of sunlight striking the back of his neck made him look up and realise that it was nearly midday, and that the rain was stopping. His clothes were wet but wearable, and putting them on hurt much less than taking them off had. As he tied back his hair into a loose ponytail, he began to feel almost like his old self, on the run after yet another escape from the Tower. By the seventh time he had developed considerable skill in avoiding detection, and had managed to travel the 250 miles from Kinloch Hold to Amaranthine and spend a week there before they caught up with him. He knew that while the Templars had his phylactery they could always use the small vial of blood to track him, but the location rituals took time and were not consistently accurate. As long as he covered his tracks well and kept away from trouble, he thought he could stay ahead of them indefinitely. 

 

He wondered how much of a head start he had. They had been on their way back from a recruiting trip in Denerim, camped about 10 miles out, well off the road in the southwest corner of the Wending Wood, when he had .. made his agreement.. with Justice. They were not expected back at Vigil's Keep for another three days, and he guessed that the Denerim Templars that had accompanied them would not be missed until then either. The rain would have washed away much of the trail from his headlong flight from the scene, and it was possible they would just assume he was one of the charred corpses anyway. Nobody else knew how many recruits had been with them. He shuddered. It wouldn't be the first time he had faked his own death, but..

 

_Don't think about it._

 

He thought it likely that if anyone tracked him, they would be at least five days behind, and good luck to them finding his trail after that time. The next problem was that he did not know what direction he had run in or how far he had gone - he had no idea where he was. He had run all day, and at his best guess this meant he had covered about 20 miles. He must be somewhere near the edge of the forest - but on what side? 

 

Hitching up his robes, he crossed the stream and walked to the top of the nearest rise. The hill he stood on was in a bend of the stream he had just crossed, which flowed west for about a mile then turned south and disappeared into a narrow gorge. Upstream from where he stood, it ran south for a short way before looping towards the east, and looking back in that direction he could see the small creek he had followed tumbling down the rocky slope. From here, the land fell away steeply, tree cloaked and rocky. He was in a range of southwest-facing foothills that grew lower as they swept away to the north, and far in the distace he thought he could see farmland. His view to the south was obscured by a fold in the hills. 

 

As best he could judge, he was somewhere on the Bannorn side of the Pilgrim's Path, on the north end of the range of hills that eventually culminated in Dragon's Peak outside of Denerim. Vigil's Keep was still well to the north, but he did not want to risk running into people who knew him, so it was best to avoid that direction. Likewise if he went east, he might stumble onto the Pilgrim's Path. The last thing he needed was to encounter a caravan, or worse, a Templar party, in this state. He could not hide his identity dressed like this, and he would not risk another slaughter. Every thought of Templars came with a touch of anger edged with a very disturbing sense of _power_ that made him shiver. No, he did not want to meet any Templars.

 

Right then, west or south it would be. He figured either way he would eventually come to the Hafter River and could then follow that upstream, which would bring him close to the West Road. Since the fall of Lothering, people were choosing the longer but better-patrolled North Road for travelling to the western arlings, and his chances of remaining undetected would be much higher on the West Road. He knew he could not stay in Ferelden, and if he could make it south to Gwaren he might be able to catch a ship. To where, though?

 

At this point, that didn't really matter. Get away, get control. Survive. These things were important. And right now that meant finding food, and clothing that did not brand him apostate. He could work out the rest later. Feeling pleased to have made a plan, he retraced his steps back to the stream, stopping every now and then to cover his tracks. Anyone searching for him might have mabari, and his trail leading to a dead end would confuse them for a while, at least. 

 


	4. Reversal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders has a dream, Justice is confused.

 

 

By evening, the rain clouds had disappeared off to the east and the sun was shining as Anders walked south along the rough path beside the Hafter. Downstream he knew this path turned into a road that would run past the Vigil before eventually taking the traveller to the gates of Amaranthine. This far upstream it was narrow and unpaved, dirt barely showing through the tough sedge grass, low-hanging branches and the occasional fallen trunk making it impossible for anything larger than a horse to pass - and by the looks of it, even those were rare.

 

The river on his right was deep and swiftly flowing, swollen from the morning's rain, but not wide. This far into Cloudreach most of the snow was gone from the mountains, and he expected that by tomorrow the river would have subsided enough to let him cross it if he chose. Looking to the other side, he thought it looked like easier traveling but there was much less cover. The trees grew further apart and the terrain was quite level – he could see at least a hundred yards into the forest on that side. The path over there looked more worn, too, as if more feet passed that way. Best to stay on this side, where there were trees and rocky outcrops in which he could get out of sight quickly. Open country was dangerous for someone dressed in mage robes. He wondered idly if he would come across a farm where he could steal some clothing.

 

His thoughts were interrupted when a rabbit burst from the undergrowth just in front of him and took off along the path. Without thinking he reached for his staff, only to realise that he didn't have it. Andraste's arse! He would have to use a spell. He thought a lightning bolt might work - most of his spells were for healing, and of the few destruction spells he had, lightning was the only one that wouldn't leave a charred crater six feet wide where the rabbit used to be, or freeze it into a block of ice that would take a day to thaw. Quickly he fired off a lightning bolt, but it missed and instead brought down a branch from a nearby tree, sizzling and crackling, as the rabbit disappeared.

 

_And probably every other rabbit within a mile._

 

Sighing, he continued on, keeping his eyes open for edible plants. The bowmen had done most of the hunting for the Wardens, and Anders was regretting having let himself get out of practice. Darkspawn at least stood still while you shot at them! He resolved to stay alert and be ready next time. Meanwhile, he picked a few of last year's berries that had been left behind after the snow, and managed to scrounge a handful of old walnuts from under a tree. Not exactly a feast, but at this point his stomach was making enough noise to startle deer a hundred yards away, and he was not fussy. 

 

Recalling his experience with the water, he was almost thankful his meal was so meagre - the seasoning of hunger combined with the sense of tasting food for the first time made it difficult to not just wolf it all down in one mouthful. Instead, he forced himself to spit out the bad parts and to chew slowly, savouring each measly morsel before swallowing. When he had finished he was still hungry, but his stomach was quiet and he kept the food down. Progress! He felt quite pleased with himself as he walked along, ignoring the part of him that was looking at the other plants surrounding him and wondering what they tasted like.

 

When it was almost too dark to see he found a small alcove, not really a cave, where a tree had fallen across the top of a bank making a covered depression with walls on three sides. Inside it was dryish and the dirt was soft and loamy. Removing his belt and curling up with his still-damp robe wrapped around him, he wished he could risk a fire. It was not cold and at least he was out of the wind, but he drifted off thinking dreamily of feather beds and soft blankets and the Warden Commander's face on the pillow next to his..

 

.. he started up. What was the meaning of this? Why was he sharing a bed with the Warden Commander? Why was he in a bed at all? He did not sleep - when the other Wardens were sleeping he stood watch, his unblinking eyes missing nothing, his host body never needing to rest. Something was wrong, and he intended to get to the bottom of it. Looking around warily, he reached to draw his sword. It was not there. Looking down, he realised that his armour was not there either. He was naked, and his body was.. more intact than he remembered. This was most disconcerting.

 

_You're dreaming._

 

Dreaming? Justice had heard this word. Mortals spoke of entering the Fade when they slept, of strange things that happened there. He had not understood this idea of dreaming - either you were in the Fade, or you were in the mortal realm, you could not be in both at once. Or could you? He looked around.

 

The bed was sitting in the middle of a wide plain, or so it seemed. When he looked at the horizon, he could not quite make it out. The only thing that was clear was a dark city in the far distance, the bed itself with the sleeping Warden, and the plate of cheese that was slowly circling above his head. This was highly irregular!

 

_I like cheese._

 

The light seemed to come from everywhere at once - that at least was familiar. But this was nothing at all like the Fade that was his home. In his Fade, the world shaped itself to his will, bringing things into existence and moulding them according to his requirements. He had no requirement for cheese, nor for the Warden Commander. He looked back at her, and was surprised to find himself sitting down and reaching out to stroke her hair as she slept. She was so beautiful! He felt a swelling in his heart that brought an ache to his throat, he wanted to just look at her and hold her and be with her, he wanted..

 

_Aura._

 

He recognised this. He had felt this before - or a shadow of it - when looking at Kristoff's wife Aura. He had felt a vague desire to stroke her hair, too, but nothing like this overwhelming sense of.. love? As realisation dawned, his eyes widened in surprise. He was experiencing Anders' dream! Just as they now shared thoughts in the mortal world, they also shared the Fade. This world was no longer his to control as he pleased, instead being coloured by Anders' desires and emotions. And it seemed Anders dreamed of being with the Warden Commander the way that Kristoff had been with Aura. 

 

This would not do. He stood and turned away. He was a Spirit of Justice, and he had no time for love! Love was a distraction from important matters! 

 

_It only leads to hurt._

 

As the thought arose unbidden he found himself looking wistfully back towards the Warden Commander and was surprised to find she was no longer there. In her place lay the Warden Arnaud. He had been a competent swordsman and a good Warden, for a mortal - an uncomplicated man who undertook his sworn duty with seriousness and dedication. Justice had admired him. Now, he was lying in torn armour with his lifeblood draining away through a large wound in his chest, gasping in pain and fear and staring wide-eyed at him. Justice looked down at himself and saw mage robes wet with blood.

 

"Why?" The Warden's word was quiet, almost whispered. "Why?"

 

"It is justice. The oppression of mages must be stopped, by force if necessary."

 

_That was not justice._

 

Looking at Arnaud's dying body, Justice felt something niggling at the back of his mind. Shaking his head did not rid him of the feeling, so he allowed it to come forward. He remembered the scene at the campsite, seeing Arnaud trying to hold the Templars back from him as he fought against the strength of Anders' anger. The Templars had been too strong, had shoved Arnaud aside and come for him, and he had succumbed to blind rage. The feeling, he realised, was regret. It had not been necessary to kill Arnaud, and he found himself feeling .. sadness? Shame? Both. So many new emotions, pulling him this way and that! 

 

Kristoff had not been like this. The corpse had only vestigal remains of its own identity, and no power to resist his will, never mind assert its own. He had expected Anders to be the same, and the force of such strong emotions was unexpected. For the first time, Justice had found himself not in control, and it had led to this.

 

_This must not happen again._

 

On that, they were agreed. How to make sure of it was less clear. Justice had much to consider.

 

A sudden movement from the corner of his eye caused him to duck, just as a large scaled claw swept over his head. Leaping to one side, he spun quickly around.. and was hit with a blast of hot air as a gaping maw full of teeth like daggers opened above his head and shrieked at him in rage. The sound made the world vibrate and seemed to turn his innards to stone. He could see a dark, forked tongue and scaly lips, and beyond that the baleful glare of one unblinking yellow eye. A horned head turned to one side and the eye fixed on him, pupil drawing to a slit. Pinned by the gaze, he felt a crawling sensation up the back of his neck as recognition dawned.

 

 _Archdemon! Slay the foul beast!_

 

The lack of weight where his sword should be seemed to mock him. Turning, he thought to flee, but it was as if he were mired in the depths of the Blackmarsh, his legs twisting around each other as he tried to lift them against an unseen weight. Stumbling, he fell backward, trying desperately to push himself away as a huge claw came down and pinned his legs and leathery wings spread high above him. Unable to move, he watched helplessly as the snapping teeth descended on him, and he knew only terror.


	5. Runaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders could do with a pair of torn trousers, and finally meets someone.

 

Anders started bolt upright in his little cave, a scream dying on his lips as he reached for a staff that wasn't there, and yelped as his head hit an exposed root. Pain shot through him and he squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clamped and teeth gritted while he waited for the pain to subside. Slowly he stopped shaking and looked blearily out at the darkness. Maker, that was bad. He hadn't had a Warden taint dream since the days just after his Joining, the taint fresh in his blood and still running into the occasional darkspawn patrol left over from the Blight. Once their leaders were killed, the darkspawn had subsided and the dreams had become infrequent, until he began to hope that maybe they were over, that that part of being a Grey Warden had been exaggerated.

 

_They will never be over._

 

Sighing, he lay back down. He couldn't recollect the rest of his dream, only the part about the Archdemon and that.. that he had been Justice? No, that wasn't right. He had been _inside_ Justice, looking out through his eyes and feeling his thoughts. Was that how it was for Justice when he was awake? Perhaps.. the feeling was fading, he was starting to lose even that small part of the dream as his mind calmed, his exhausted body overriding all else in its need for sleep.

 

He woke to wan daylight and the steady drip of rain outside his little shelter. Spring in this part of Ferelden was predictable - rain and more rain, with extra added rain. Most people complained about the rain, but Anders had always liked it. After years in the Tower, shut away behind windows so high that the dim light filtering down barely showed any difference between day and night, weather was a wondrous novelty. He loved the feel of it on his skin, tactile proof of the fact that there were no layers of stone between him and the sky. This morning though, after his uncomfortable night's sleep and with aches sprouting through most of his body, only the need to empty his bladder drove him out of the cocooned relative comfort of his tree-trunk cave. Once he was wet, he thought he might as well get going, and set off upstream toward the south.

 

The hours passed drearily as he trudged along, hair plastered to his forehead by the rain and robes soaked through, attempting to keep an eye on his footing and at the same time stay on the lookout for things he could eat. At midmorning he was rewarded with a particularly slow rabbit, conveniently pre-cooked by the lightning bolt that brought it down. He ate half of it before he was able to stop himself, tucking the rest away for later, and afterward the steps came more easily. The ground remained level, which he was thankful for, as the river slowly turned away from the foothills and the forest began to thin out. He realised that if he wanted clothing suitable for traveling, he would need to find people - unless he stumbled on one of those strange caches where he might find a linen shirt or a pair of torn trousers. With this in mind he started to scan the horizon hopefully for signs of life as he walked, but there was not so much as a footprint. To make matters worse, the rain continued unrelenting throughout the day, and that night was spent huddled miserably under a thorny thicket, trying to avoid drips running down the back of his neck.

 

By midday the next day, Anders was beginning to revise his opinion about rain. It still felt good on his skin, but the way his robes clung to his legs made walking hard and the constant squishing in his boots reminded him unpleasantly of the Blackmarsh. The week he'd spent there with the Warden Commander had been a lesson for him in things he'd rather not do again. These things included being trapped in the Fade, fighting a spectral dragon, and wearing wet underclothing for days. And the leeches! He shuddered. It had, he recalled, also been where he met the Spirit of Justice for the first time. Justice had become his friend, but that was later. At the time, his experience was mainly of fear, discomfort, more fear, and being constantly wet. No, he had no desire to revisit the Blackmarsh. Grimly, he squelched on.

 

In the early afternoon the sun emerged again, causing his robe to steam as it dried and revealing a view out across the Bannorn from the vantage of a low hill. This far upstream, the Hafter was only about thirty feet wide, a shallow rocky stream tucked deep between steep banks, and the other side was almost entirely open with only the occasional tree. Hills undulated away toward plains to the west, the shadows turning the tucks and folds into velvet, and the peaceful loveliness of the scene took his breath away. This really was a beautiful world! As he stood admiring the fresh green of the pastures and trees coming into full leaf, he realised he would probably never see this again. He wasn't even sure why that thought made him sad - it wasn't as if Ferelden had been kind to him - but it was the only home he could remember, and his first taste of freedom had been here. The stunning vista took on an added poignancy, and he slowly turned away.

 

_Don't think about it._

 

The list of things to avoid thinking about was growing longer. He'd been deliberately shying his mind away from the events in the Warden camp, afraid that if he started down that track he would give in to despair. He could feel it, lurking just outside his awareness - a dark, heavy sense of inevitable failure that he knew would paralyse him if he let it take hold. Growing up in the Tower Anders had succumbed to this more than once. Sometimes he would remain in that desolate place for days, unmoving, refusing food and friendship while dark thoughts plagued him, lying alone in his cot wishing for something, anything, to end his miserable existence. Solitary confinement had been the worst, but he had survived it and his spirit had not broken. Instead he had learned to completely shut off this part of his mind, squashing his emotions until they no longer affected him, until even he could believe the charming, witty, sarcastic face he showed the world was his real one. This was working for him now - survival, that was important. Put one foot in front of the other and think only about the future. Otherwise..

 

_Don't think about it._

 

He was startled out of his reverie by the sound of hoofbeats, approaching fast. Panicking, Anders ran for a low outcrop of rocks, hoping he would get there before he was seen. Reaching the cover of the largest, he risked a peek around the side as the thundering grew louder. Suddenly a large black horse burst into sight on the other side of the river, galloping with its neck stretched out, foam flying from its jaws as the rider on its back tried frantically to slow it down.

 

"Whoa! Whoah! Void take you, whoa!"

 

The rider, a young man, rocked dangerously from side to side as the horse ran, arms flapping and legs clinging to its sides. As they approached the bank of the stream, the horse gathered itself as if to jump. Anders drew in a sharp breath. There was no way they would clear it! He braced himself for the inevitable.

 

At the last moment the horse propped, front legs braced in front of it and hind legs scrambling in the wet dirt for purchase. All Anders saw was one white-ringed eye rolling wildly and divots of mud tumbling down the bank as the horse spun sharply and took off galloping downstream. The rider was not so lucky. As the horse turned, his grip on the mane slipped and he continued on, flailing his arms and legs as he flew through the air and landed with a sickening crunch on the rocks on Anders' side of the stream.

 


	6. Healer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders accidentally reveals himself and receives an unexpected offer of help. Warning, blood and gore.

 

Anders was up and running before the young man hit the ground, scrambling down the bank and almost falling in his own haste to get to the scene. What he saw made him go pale and swallow hard several times. The man was lying on his side, feet trailing in the water. One leg was bent at an odd angle, and Anders could see the sharp tip of a broken bone poking through a hole in his breeches at the thigh, a bloodstain spreading darkly around the wound. The young man was unconscious, and a swiftly-swelling cut over one eye showed the reason. He could see no other obvious wounds, but the broken thighbone and the head wound were both potentially fatal. Making a decision, Anders set to work.

 

Tearing a strip from the bottom of his robe, he tied it tightly around the man's upper leg. Hopefully that would staunch the blood enough to keep him alive for the time being. It was serious, but would have to wait while he dealt with the head injury. Gathering mana, he first Regenerated the man's whole body, then focused on the area of the injury, chaining Heals until the internal swelling had reversed and a purple bruise began to spread into one eye. This was a good sign - aging bruises showed that an injury was well on the way to being healed. The man would be unconscious for a while, but he would live. 

 

The next part required more effort - broken bones could not be fixed by magic alone, they required manipulation to realign them before applying healing. Quickly he cut the leg of the man's breeches away from the wound, sucking in air through his teeth as the sight of it. The leg angled sharply away from the break, the muscles appearing disfigured and twisted. A sharp piece of bone poked out two inches from skin which was swollen and discoloured, and blood was steadily running from the puncture wound where it emerged. Anders knew the man could bleed to death if the wound remained open too long, but he had to set the leg first. 

 

Unheeding of the amount of blood he was smearing on himself, the mage sat down at the man's feet and placed one foot in his groin, grasping the leg firmly just above the knee with both hands. Slowly he began to apply pressure, arm muscles bunching as he pulled the knee towards himself, gradually straightening the leg. Fighting against the strong muscles resisting him, he was grunting and sweating by the time the broken part disappeared back inside the man's flesh. The other apprentices, particularly the Force mages, had teased Anders about choosing to be a healer, calling him weak. They had eaten their words later when the physical development from practicing on livestock started to show. He was thankful for that strength now. When the bone finally snapped back into place, the young man thrashed his head around and moaned, but didn't wake.

 

Panting with exertion, Anders kept the pressure on while casting Heals until the bone was knitted enough to hold, then moved to inspect the wound which was now pulsing blood steadily. First he undid the makeshift tourniquet to let off pressure until the blood flowed freely, then quickly poured all the healing he had into it, feeling bone and flesh begin to mend as he carefully worked from the inside out, cleansing any exposed parts as he found them. When the pumping blood had slowed to a trickle he paused for a minute to gather enough mana to complete the process. 

 

Finally the wound was closed and a livid purple scar surrounded by dark bruising were all that remained. The man still had some broken ribs and a nasty whiplash, but his life was no longer in danger. Anders cast one more Regenerate then sagged back, completely drained.

 

The sudden hand descending on his shoulder had him scrambling away, eyes casting around for an escape route as he frantically tried to summon a lightning bolt. But his mana was gone and his magic fizzled in his hand as he collapsed back, unable to defend himself, feeling his desperation turn to anger. Power began to surge inside him ..

 

_No._

 

He would not allow that to happen again. Fighting to control himself, he gritted his teeth and looked up into surprised brown eyes and a lined, tanned face surrounded by dark curls.

 

"So you're a mage then. It's all right boy, I mean you no harm." The man offered a large, dirty hand. Anders looked at the hand as if it crawled with darkspawn taint and avoided taking it. He tried to shrink as far back from the man as possible as the urge to flee replaced the urge to hurt. It was useless. He was completely spent and at this man's mercy.

  
"Suit yourself. I'm just going to sit down here and admire your handiwork. That's my son, see, and I saw what you did for him. He'd be dead, weren't for you. Just you think on that." And the man sat heavily next to his prone son, resting a hand on his brow, not looking at Anders.

 

Anders' mind was racing. He knew that even with lyrium and elfroot, in this state of exhaustion after so long without a real meal it would be at least half an hour before he was able to move at more than a slow shuffle. He might be able to produce a mind blast, but he would still be lying there when the man came to. Andraste's flaming sword, how did he let this happen? His gaze fell on his patient, whose breathing was now even and slow, sleeping deeply as his body mended. _That_ was how he let this happen. He hadn't even thought of his own safety or the possiblity of getting caught. All he could see was that someone was hurt and needed his help, and now he was helpless. Blast it!

 

_I am a healer._

 

He sighed in resignation. It could not be any other way - healing was what he did, and in some ways he was glad to know that this part of him was still intact. And besides, as far as he could tell he wasn't in any immediate danger. Carefully, he studied the man from the corner of his eye.

 

He was a short, stocky man whose rolled up shirtsleeves revealed muscled forearms. Large hands with short, dirty fingernails and callouses combined with squint lines around the eyes and a deep tan, showed he was a man who spent a great deal of time working out of doors. The linen trousers, plain boots and braces marked him as a farmer, and the slight paunch suggested he was a successful one. The dark hair showed streaks of grey at the temples, topping a gentle face with a large, straight nose and generous mouth. Anders could see a resemblance between the older man and the younger, although the younger man's features were sharper and his hair was in need of a cut, tendrils spreading on the ground around his head.

 

"That blighted horse," said the man quietly, "always was a handful in springtime. I should have sold him, but after the Blight, good strong horses are hard to come by, and that one rides and drives. Young Peder there thought he'd ride him into the village, see? Show off to the young ladies. Ha!" Anders found himself listening despite himself.

 

"I don't rightly know what started it. I was fetching old Bossy for milking, heard a racket, saw horse clear the pasture fence. Started running after them thinking I'd find him lying by the path. Those marks on the riverbank - I thought he was done for. Then this blue light, and there you were. I saw it all." The man looked at Anders, then away again.

 

"Now here's the thing. Without horse, I don't know how I'm going to get young Peder here back to the farm. He's a strapping lad, and my gammy hip would give out before I got half way." He looked back to Anders, this time meeting his eyes. "I don't know where you came from and I don't want to know, but I recognise someone's in some trouble when I see it. Seems to me you could do with a decent meal and a couple of days' rest." His gaze fell to Anders' robes. "And some new clothes." Anders squirmed uncomfortably, and the farmer looked back at his son, gaze softening.

 

"You saved his life, no two ways about it. We owe you. No, don't try to brush it off, " he said as Anders opened his mouth to object. "We owe you and that's that. I see as how you're a mage, and you don't look like you've been in any Circle lately. I know what you risked to help Peder. You come back with me to the farm, get some food, some rest, some clothes, and we never saw you." He pulled a cloth-wrapped package from his pocket and revealed a small wedge of cheese, placing it on the ground between them. "Name's Perris. Help yourself."

 

Anders' mouth watered and his stomach made a loud gurgle as the smell of the cheese wafted over to him. He might as well eat it - he couldn't see any way this could be a trap. Slowly he reached out and took it, eyes never leaving Perris, but the farmer didn't move. When the cheese was gone he sat up, feeling better.

 

"All right." His voice came out in a cracked whisper, and he realised this was the first time he'd spoken for days. He tried again. "All right." Perris nodded, satisfied. "You sit there and rest, boy, and I'll cut some poles to make a stretcher." He waded across the stream and disappeared over the riverbank. If Anders were going to make a run for it, now would be the time. When he tried to raise himself though, he realised how weak he was and that decided him. This man meant him no harm, and he really did need the help. He would stay.

 

Sitting quietly in the early evening sunshine, he felt his strength flowing back, and soon Perris arrived with two poles. Pulling some string from his pocket, he removed his coat and used it to fashion a platform between the poles on which Peder could lay. With one end of the poles dragging on the ground, the two men could each hold one of the other ends and use their spare hand to support the young man. Peder's eyes fluttered open and he groaned with pain when the old farmer hefted him onto his back to carry him across the stream, but once he was settled into the makeshift stretcher he remained quiet. Picking up their poles, the two men glanced at each other, then braced themselves and started the slow journey to the farm.

 


	7. Hospitality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders finally gets a decent meal, and it brings back pleasant memories.

Trying to be unobtrusive, Anders reached for another piece of chicken. He had already downed three, along with several bread rolls and a plate full of greens, and he was only just starting to slow down. Perris and his wife, Norah, looked on mildly and made no comment. The table was laid as if to feed several people, or so it seemed to Anders. The couple had finished eating already and while Anders completed his meal, Norah got up and placed a kettle on the fire to boil while Perris prepared a large and ornate pipe.

 

"Would you like some pie, love?" asked Norah. "It's blueberry."

 

Anders' eyes lit up at the thought of blueberry pie. The cooks at the Vigil were mostly interested in feeding a large number of hungry Wardens as efficiently as possible, which meant not wasting time with sweets and desserts. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had blueberry pie. Mouth full, his pleading eyes must have spoken for him. 

 

Norah smiled. "Right you are then." 

 

She busied herself cutting a large slice from a pie that had been sitting on the windowsill. She was a tiny, slim woman, so dainty as to appear almost fragile. Her blonde hair, streaked with grey, was pulled back into a loose bun with tendrils falling over her face. She looked tired, but the lines around her eyes showed someone who smiled a lot. She was smiling now as she passed him the pie, topped with a large dollop of cream. "Here you go, love. Fresh today." Anders thought she reminded him of his mother - although he was the first to admit that after all these years his memory of his mother had dulled to a vague sense of blonde hair, a pretty face and general motherliness. The only thing he had to remind him of her was an embroidered pillow she had pressed into his hands as the Templars led him away from his childhood home in chains. He felt a twinge in his heart as he realised he had left it back at Vigil's Keep. Still, he thought, shoving the emotion to the back of his mind, he was sure this was how his mother had been. 

 

After he had finished eating, Anders excused himself and went to check on Peder, leaving Norah and Perris sipping tea companionably in front of a wide fireplace. He found the young man awake and in good spirits, despite the sallow cast to his complexion and the impressive black eye. Anders checked his pupils with a candle, relieved to find them behaving normally, and felt along the thigh with his hands. Peder winced but did not cry out as the mage carefully manipulated the area around where the break had been. It would take a few weeks to be completely normal, but the young man should have full use of it. 

 

"So, you're a mage then?" said Peder quietly.

 

Anders' hands stilled, and he took a deep breath. It was too late to try to hide it. Perris had given him some of Peder's clothes to wear when he had washed up earlier, and had taken his filthy robe away to burn - but not before Peder had woken and seen it.

 

"Yes. I.." Anders didn't know what else to say. Most people were afraid of him once they found out he was a mage. These people were not, and it confused him.

 

"You saved my life. Dad told me."

 

"Yes." There was no point denying it. "You'll have a headache for a few days, and you'll walk with a limp for a while, but you will be fine. No prancing about on horses for the next three months." Anders admonished.

 

Peder smiled. "I'm done with riding. It's walking for me from now on." He laughed, then screwed up his face in pain. 

 

"Try to keep still. I'm going to mend your ribs." Anders laid one hand on the young man's shoulder and opened his shirt, inspecting the swelling on the left side just below the nipple. He couldn't help but notice the well muscled chest with it light smattering of hair, appreciative thoughts sneaking unbidden into his mind, but he pushed them away and placed his hands gently over the broken ribs. Working methodically he channelled mana into the area, knitting each bone in turn and then the small tears in the flesh where they had moved around. He was lucky that the trip in the stretcher had not done more damage. Peder laid still, breathing carefully, and the pain lines in his face slowly relaxed as the healing washed through him. Finally, when the only trace of the injury was some yellow discolouration, Anders looked up unsteadily. Peder was asleep.

 

Back in the kitchen, he hoped he wouldn't be expected to make conversation. He felt slightly better than hurlock spew - maybe mabari spew - and he badly needed to rest. As it turned out, he needn't have worried. Perris was asleep in front of the fire, snoring softly, and when Anders came back in Norah simply placed a steaming mug in front of him, smiled gently at his look of gratitude, and went back to her knitting. He tried to stay awake to drink his tea, but the warmth and his full belly stacked on top of exhaustion finally caught up with him, and his head slowly sank to the table.

 

"I'm sorry love, time to move." Gentle hands stroked his hair. "If you sleep here, you'll wake up stiff as a board. Come on, up with you."

 

"Mmmm.. " Anders mumbled sleepily, raising his head. "Uhh.. mm.. bed..?" He took the offered hand and stood up. It was so small.. he was so big.. confused, he allowed himself to be led, barely registering where he was going. Soon, the hands guided him to sit, then lie down, on a narrow cot. He closed his eyes, starting to drift off again.

 

"Here we are, you should be comfortable here." A blanket was tucked around him, and a cool hand laid on his forehead. "Sleep well, love. Goodnight."

 

Smiling slightly, Anders rolled onto his side. "Mmm.. night Mother..."

 

Norah looked down at the sleeping mage, eyes full of compassion. Then she turned and left, quietly closing the stable door behind her.


	8. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders struggles to understand why his hosts are not afraid of him.

 

The warm sunshine of late afternoon was slanting through the high window of the stable when Anders awoke. For a minute he didn't know where he was, then memories of the previous evening surfaced. Perris had apologised shamefacedly when showing him the stable bed - there had been a fire, he said, and they'd lost several rooms. They'd been lucky to save the main part of the house. They had wanted to give him Peder's room but he had insisted the young man needed a proper bed and that the stable was more than adequate.

 

Someone had brought his boots and a change of clothes, and there was a basin of water on the shelf with a piece of soap and a towel beside it. Worried, he looked around for his belt, and thanked the Maker as he found it hanging on a nail beside the door, his dagger still hooked through its loop. He wondered if they were really that naive or if they had a reason to be so trusting. Maybe they were just honest people. 

 

Using the dagger to shave himself in the basin made him feel more normal than he had for days. He'd never been very good at shaving regularly and his beard seemed to have Grey Warden stamina all its own, so the feeling of being clean shaven felt like a luxury. He finished by splashing water on his face and chest, then pulling on clean trousers. Just as he was buttoning them up, the door opened quietly.

 

"Oh good, you're awake." said Perris, hesitating in the doorway. "Thought you were going to sleep all day. Norah said to just leave you and I thought it best to listen. No arguing with that woman when she gets all motherly." He chuckled to himself, deep affection on his face. "Ready for something to eat?"

 

***

 

Two days later, Anders was becoming accustomed to the feel of trousers. Robes were made for creeping along stone corridors where the wind never entered, and he was appreciating the practicality of clothing that hugged close to his skin as he tried to earn his keep by helping on the farm. He had kept wearing his robes as a free mage more as a way of thumbing his nose at the Circle than for any practical purpose. Now he was fast becoming a trouser convert. It was not as if he had any choice in the matter anyway - he needed to blend in, and the garish Circle robes were designed to make mages highly visible. The Templars liked it that way.

 

The stirring in the back of his mind at the thought of Templars was quickly quelled. With food and rest he felt stronger, and with practice he had found he could control his thoughts much better. There were odd times when strange urges overcame him - such as when he'd barely stopped himself from calling the farm's horse a noble beast and waxing lyrical about its profile - but he had been able to keep them to himself. For the first time since he had merged with Justice, he felt hope that this arrangement might work out.

 

True to Perris's promise, he and Norah had not pressed Anders to talk, for which he was also thankful. He had no idea what to say, and felt that the less they knew about him the safer they would be - the Templars were not kind to mage sympathisers. He hadn't even given them his name - Perris was content to call him 'boy' and Norah called everybody 'love' anyway. Peder had asked, but the look of fleeting panic on Anders' face at the question was enough to make him splutter an embarrassed apology and ask no further questions. He had learned that the small family grew corn and raised sheep on a hundred acres of land right on the edge of the Bannorn, and that this farm had been in Perris's family for five generations. They were true Ferelden country folk and spoke rarely, communicating in sparse words with a kind of amicable understanding that reached out easily to include him. 

 

That afternoon Anders was holding the horse for its feet to be trimmed. He was a little bit afraid of horses, and this one seemed to sense it, tossing its head fractiously and fidgeting about. Perris was cursing as he tried to wield the hoof cutters, succeeding only in making the horse more restless. More and more of the horse's whites were showing and the situation was fast becoming dangerous, the ringing hooves echoing off the walls as the beast shifted its bulk around. Surreptitiously Anders placed a hand on its forehead and released a small pulse of the calming energy he sometimes used on people in high states of anxiety. The horse immediately stilled, dropping its head and putting its muzzle in Anders' hand. 

 

"Thanks." Perris grunted. Anders' stomach dropped - and then he blinked in surprise. The farmer had noticed, and had.. thanked him? Not only thanked him, but done it in such a matter of fact way, as if he'd merely passed him a tool. Even the Wardens he healed had been unnerved when he used magic, but this man seemed completely unperturbed, carrying on with his work as if nothing had happened. He didn't understand. 

 

With the horse standing quietly the hoof trimming was quickly finished. As Perris was putting away his tools, Anders gathered his courage and cleared his throat.

 

"You're not afraid of me." 

 

Perris looked at him quizzically. "No boy, I'm not."

 

Anders was confused. "But.. I'm a mage. I'm inherently dangerous and untrustworthy. I could turn on you at any time." He couldn't help the bitterness that crept into his voice.

 

"Pah!" Perris spat. "That's what the Chantry says, true enough. Me, I never set much store by them folks' ideas. Seems to me they only see what their Divine tells them to. The Divine says 'be afraid of magic' so they are, and they tell rest of us we should be too. Never question why, or if that's all of the story. Makes no sense."

 

Anders stared at him, mouth open.

 

"I saw you with my son," Perris reminded him. "What you did. You wore yourself out saving him, I know. Gave it everything you had. You can't tell me that's wrong. You've got troubles, I can see that, but you're a good lad. I'm not afraid of you, no. I'm afraid _for_ you."

 

With that, he turned away. "Time to wash up for dinner." At the door he turned back hesitantly, not quite meeting Anders' eyes, unsure of himself. After a few seconds he seemed to come to a decision.

 

"My daughter was a mage," he said quietly. Then he was gone.


	9. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders must restrain Justice from going on a rampage as his hosts' story emerges and old memories bite deeply.

Later, as Anders sat sipping tea by the fire with Perris and Norah, the story came out. Slowly, haltingly. It was horribly familiar. Their daughter had manifested her magic at twelve, as he had - but unlike his parents, Perris and Norah had not been frightened by it. They didn't see how such a bright, happy child was suddenly dangerous because of her gift. Instead of reporting her to the Chantry as was expected when a child showed magical tendencies, they had told no-one, working with her to help her learn to control it. Norah described her as no different from other children her age, dealing with the strong emotions of growing up and trying to do right. "She tried so hard," Norah said feelingly, "It always seemed as if she had more feelings inside her than we did, and she worked more than anyone her age ever should to keep it under control."

 

When she was fifteen the girl had been with some other local youths when she came running home, tear stains on her face and with burn marks on her dress. One of the boys had been teasing her about her tiny size, she told them, stealing her hat and holding it high so she couldn't reach, then grabbing her by her waist and kissing her when she tried to retrieve it. She had got angry and accidentally made a fire blast. Nobody had been hurt, she said, but they had all seen, and she was so sorry and she wouldn't ever do it again.. but it was too late. Someone reported it and a few days later the Templars had come.

 

At this, Anders felt the first stirring of anger deep within him. He fought to keep it down, focusing very hard on one of the knots in the floorboards as the tale continued.

 

She had hidden in her room and locked the door, not wanting to go. The Templars had barged into the house and kicked down the door, dragging the girl out by her feet, screaming and kicking. There had been a fireball that burned one of the men and set fire to the curtains. Perris's voice grew quieter as he described the Templars locking manacles onto his daughter and dragging her off into the night without another word, leaving him and Norah standing clutching each other as the house burned behind them. Young Peder had wanted to give chase, to bring her back, and had had to be forcibly restrained. That was five years ago. It had been the last time they'd seen her.

 

Anders sat with gritted teeth, fists clenched, eyes staring directly ahead. "I...." he tried to form words, but it was no use. Memories flooded into his mind in flashes: the fire in the barn, his father's mortified face, the stern Templars, the chains.. his mother's oustretched arms and the receding sound of her voice.. Anders' world reduced to the tiny pinprick of light from the high grating of a Tower cell. His anger surged.

 

_No! I will not.._

 

Straining, he raised his head and looked at the old couple in front of him. Their deep sadness was palpable, and helped him regain a measure of control. He tried again. "Not.. your.. fault." Forced out through gritted teeth. Suddenly, he pushed his chair back. "I have to get some air." 

 

He made it as far as the barn before collapsing against its outside wall, face in his hands as he struggled against the anger that was trying to burst out of him. He could feel his skin crackling with it, blue flashes rising and fading as he warred with himself, the metallic taste of lyrium strong on his tongue. He could not let this loose here. 

 

_I will have vengeance!_

 

These were good people, they had been wronged as much as he had, it would be unjust to take his anger out on them..

 

_Unjust.._

 

Vengeance was for those who _caused_ suffering, not its victims. These people did not deserve his vengeance. He repeated the words over and over again in his mind like a mantra, and slowly they broke through his anger. Gradually he calmed until only the occasional spasm ran through him, briefly turning his brown eyes to blue, gone just as quickly. 

 

_I am Anders. I am a warrior. I am Justice. I am a healer. I am Anders. I am Anders. I am Anders!_

 

He had controlled it. Sinking into a sitting position with his arms on his knees, he didn't notice the tears on his face, aware only of his relief and the sense of hollow sadness where his anger had been. After a while a small hand touched his shoulder. Norah sat down beside him and held him, stroking his hair with and rocking softly back and forth as he wept and shuddered. 

 

When the tears stopped, he raised his head and looked at her with red-rimmed eyes. "Thank you."

 

"Don't mention it, love. Let's just sit a while, shall we?" Anders nodded meekly and they sat side by side against the wall, shoulders touching companionably.

 

"I'm sorry," she said. "I should have realised that would be upsetting to hear."

 

Anders shook his head. "It's all right. I.. " He had never talked about this. "It's just, so many mages tell the same story, but I'd never thought about the people left behind before. It's just as hard for them."

 

"Aye, it is hard," replied Norah, sighing. "I still miss her. I think about her life in the Tower, what it must be like, but I've never been there, it's not allowed. I can only imagine - she'd be grown up by now, a woman. If she were still here, she'd be thinking of getting married.. ah, what's the use dreaming? What's done's done, and I suppose she's happy enough. What is it like, in the Tower?"

 

Anders wasn't sure what to say. "Uh.. Plenty of mages are happy in the Tower. There's food, and a bed, and training to help you control your gifts. There are other people there who understand what it's like, and once you pass your Harrowing, you might be able to get permission to work outside. It's safe. Yes, plenty of mages are happy." He hoped he sounded suitably positive.

 

"But you weren't." Norah laid a hand on his and looked at him searchingly. 

 

Now he was on familiar territory. "I wanted something more," he said. "I wanted to choose my own destiny as any other man can. Is that too much to ask?" he added defiantly.

 

"No," she replied thoughtfully. "It's not." They sat quietly for a while.

 

"I just wish I knew if she were happy," Norah said. She turned towards him. "I don't know where they took her, but maybe you knew her? Her name is Tyrah."

 

Anders felt as if a knife had been thrust into him. Yes, he knew her. She had been in the Elemental school, about three years younger than him with a fiery temper to match her talents and a tiny frame that belied her power. He remembered long, fine blonde hair that formed a golden halo around her head when she walked. He remembered talk of how much she feared the Harrowing. He remembered the feel of her legs wrapped around his waist and the marks she had left on his back with her nails. 

 

He did not remember if Tyrah had been happy, because mages did not talk of such things. In a life with no power, mages could not afford to care too deeply, did not dare to think of a future. Mages did not love – instead they coupled indiscriminately, their frantic lovemaking edged with desperation as they sought solace from their loneliness in flesh and warmth. He knew Tyrah, but he did not know anything about her.

 

He remembered the last time he had seen her after he was released from solitary - her blank eyes staring mildly at him as she came out of the Chantry, the sunburst scar on her forehead. She had chosen Tranquility rather than face Harrowing. Her connection to the Fade had been ritually severed, and she no longer felt anything. Some felt Tranquility was a blessing. Anders did not. 

 

"I'm sorry," he lied. "I didn't know her."

 

Norah's face sank. "Thank you anyway," she whispered in a choked voice. They lapsed into silence, each lost in their own thoughts. After a while, Norah sighed and stood. "I should get back to Perris. Good night, love." She patted his hand gently and left. Anders remained by the barn until dawn.

 


	10. Integration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders receives a gift, and Justice learns discretion.

 

The next morning, Anders decided it was time to leave. Peder was up and about, limping slightly but cheerful and claiming he was tired of staring at four walls and wanted to do something. After a thorough checking over, in which Anders felt uncomfortable more than once at the almost worshipful looks the young man was casting him, Peder was declared fit for light duties. 

 

“No climbing, no running, no carrying heavy things for at least three weeks,” Anders ordered. “And stay away from that horse!” He looked sternly at the young man.

 

“Got it,” said Peder. “No more horses for me. Or donkeys, or halla.” He suddenly looked serious. “I never thanked you for saving my life. I.. don't really know how, but.. I want to give you something.” He disappeared into his room and was heard rummaging about. He emerged carrying what looked like a coat made from squares of light brown leather. Suddenly shy, he handed it to Anders.

 

“I was going to wear this for Summerday, but I want you to have it. To replace the clothes you ruined saving me,” he finished hurriedly, as if afraid Anders would refuse.

 

Anders held the coat up and inspected it. He'd never seen anything quite like it – knee length and designed to fit closely, it fastened with large brass rings in the front and had a short split in the back for riding or walking. Instead of sleeves, it had a kind of short overjacket in the Antivan style that went around the shoulders, in a soft green fabric with a high collar and gold stitching. In a way that he couldn't quite place, it reminded him of his old robes. Shrugging into it, he smoothed it down and was impressed at its intsant warmth and the way it seemed to mould itself to the shape of his body. With his belt around the middle, this would do nicely.

 

“Thank you,” he said. “It's .. exactly what I needed.” He was not accustomed to receiving gifts and didn't quite know how to react. The Warden Commander was the only other person who he could recall having given him gifts, and that was different – she needed his help and the way he saw it, it was her way of making sure he didn't run away from the Wardens the way he had from the Tower. But she had also trusted him, and had treated him as a man instead of treating him as a mage, and nobody had ever done that before. When she'd given him a kitten he had gushed embarrassingly and fallen a little bit in love with her despite himself. He'd never admitted it – he was too afraid to - and she'd never noticed it, and now she was in Highever and Pounce was in Amaranthine and .. and he should stop thinking about it because Peder was looking at him very strangely.

 

“Thank you,” he said again quietly.

 

Perris had simply nodded his understanding when Anders had told him of his plans to leave that afternoon, and quietly started gathering together supplies for his journey. He hadn't listened to Anders' attempts to refuse, insisting that it was the least they could do for the mage who had saved their son's life. Norah had handed him a large rucksack with two changes of clothing and enough dried food for at least a week on the road. In addition his boots had been oiled and his dagger sharpened, and he had a blanket, a cloak, a waterskin and a handful of coin. He felt prepared for anything.

  
Norah had hugged him hard when Perris brought the cart around, whispering “Take care, love.” and pressing the bag of coin into his hand. Peder had shaken his hand, commenting on how well the new jacket fit him then looking on wistfully as they slowly drove away.

 

Now he was standing beside West Road, watching as Perris and the cart rumbled slowly off back the way they had come. Anders hadn't known what to say – in the past he'd always foregone goodbyes in favour of disappearing in the night – but Perris had merely clapped him on the shoulder and said “Good luck, boy, and thank you. And if anyone asks, there's been no mages seen around here going on three years.” A long look into Anders' eyes, and he was gone. Anders turned and left the road, heading into the hills to the south.

 

***

 

The days blended into each other as he settled into a routine of rising at dawn and walking until late morning, resting a couple of hours then continuing through the afternoon, stopping in the early evening to seek shelter. He kept the West Road just within sight on his right to guide him, and judged he was covering about fifteen miles a day. He supplemented the travelling food Norah had given him with anything he could find, mostly last year's berries and nuts but occasionally some fresh greens he found growing, or an unlucky rabbit. Once he considered stealing a cabbage from the garden of a farm he passed, but the sense of _wrong_ that rose up inside him at the thought made him discard it quickly. 

 

Mostly he was not bothered by thoughts of Justice – it seemed that after the initial shock of the merge and the ensuing battle of wills, the spirit was content to be a passenger and merely observe. Anders was still horrified at what he had done back at the camp, but it was becoming tempered with a view that it had been his only option, that his purpose was too important to allow interference, and that Rolan and his Templars had needed to be stopped at any cost. When his mind touched on Arnaud and the other Wardens, it shrank away – it had been wrong, a mistake that he would not repeat. He could rationalise that innocent people sometimes got hurt in the pursuit of justice, but nevertheless he had no wish to lose control like that again. He would _not_ lose control like that again, he resolved. 

  
As he had expected there were few caravans on the road, and even fewer lone travellers. On the third day he'd seen a group of six Templars, and hidden well back behind a screen of trees, heart thundering in his chest as he fought gainst panic. Surely they were after him? They must have his phylactery. They would kill him for sure – at this he had to close his eyes and force down the lyrium-tinged urge to rise up and tear them limb from limb, gritting his teeth and biting the inside of his lip until it bled, reminding himself over and over that he would not kill the innocent.

 

_Templars are not innocent._

 

It was true. Templars were responsible for a great deal of suffering. But these Templars had done nothing to him, and killing them would bring the full force of the Chantry down on him.

 

 _We cannot.._

 

As he struggled with himself, the clanking of Templar armour slowly faded, and when he next chanced a look they were almost out of sight, heading west at the double. They hadn't noticed him, they hadn't been after him. Anders let out a long, shuddering breath. He was safe. Wiping his mouth with the back of one shaky hand, the sight of blood brought a shock of recognition, his bloodied hands in the Warden camp flashing into his mind and gone again just as quickly. This was different, though - he had controlled the spirit and his own anger this time. 

 

As he stood up and prepared to get moving, the world seemed brighter. The Templars had not been after him, and he was in control. There was a jaunty swing in his step as he continued on his way, and it was easy to push aside the small niggle in the back of his mind that asked exactly when he had started to think of himself and Justice as 'we'.


	11. Karl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders reads a letter and finds a purpose.

 

A week later, Anders sat leaning against the wall of the abandoned shack he had chosen to shelter in for the night. A small fire crackled in front of him, sparks rising straight up into the still night air, and the blanket wrapped over his shoulders kept him warm. Dinner had been a rabbit and the last of his travelling food, used up as a treat because he expected to come to a village the next day. He didn't know this part of Ferelden well, but in the valley below he could see a fork in the river he'd been following for the last four days. Where a river forked next to a road, there was usually a village. He needed more supplies, and to find out exactly where he was. He knew eventually he would have to cross the Southron Hills, but if he did it in the wrong place he could end up missing the Brecilian Passage altogether and wandering in the forest until bears – or worse, he thought, shuddering – took him. 

 

He was nervous about going into the village. Even as a Grey Warden he had never quite believed that someone wouldn't point at him and shout “Apostate!” and that he'd suddenly be surrounded by Templars and dragged back to the Tower. Now, it was even more important that he went unnoticed. He couldn't help feeling some excitement, though. People! He missed people. He had never been alone this long before, and was looking forward to feeling the bustle of humanity around him again.

 

Checking through his bags and pouches, he took stock. Hopefully there would be an apothecary in the village as he only had three elfroot and two lyrium potions left. The lyrium glowed faintly blue in the dusk, and something stirred in his mind as he felt it.. singing? It was faint behind the protection of the lead crystal vial, but the vibration went through his entire being, uplifting his senses in a subtle form of ecstasy. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Lyrium was strange stuff, and he was a little afraid of it – it brought the Fade closer, and this allowed him to draw power from its spirits for his healing, but it also brought those other things. Things that slithered and whispered temptation to his deepest being and.. and now he was starting to associate it with the times when Vengeance stirred inside him.

 

_Such a sweet song._

 

He recalled Justice's fascination with the stuff, and his eyes widened as realisation dawned. He was feeling Justice's joy at the lyrium song! Quickly he placed the vials back into the pouch. He doubted if he would find lyrium in a village in the middle of nowhere, but if he stayed out of trouble he might not need to use what he had. He was almost afraid to try drinking lyrium now. Sliding his fingers back into the pouch, he drew out a well-thumbed piece of paper, opening it and reading words that sprang as much from his memory as from the page.

 

“ _Dear Anders,_

 

_I can scarcely believe it. You, a Grey Warden! Although if anyone were going to find a way to live as a mage outside the Circle, it would be you. I am happy that you've found a duty that seems worth dedicating yourself, although I fear for you facing those horrible darkspawn. How do you cope in the Deep Roads? I know you always hated being enclosed like that, I can't imagine what it's like for you to be underground._

 

_Life here is much the same as always. My big news is that Cullen from the Ferelden Circle is here! I know you and he never saw eye to eye, but I like seeing another Fereldan face around and he's a good man, if strict. Things in the Gallows never change much really, although I can see now why they wanted me here. The mages here are more rebellious, and more seem to choose Tranquility as well. I work with the young apprentices, helping them learn how to control their gifts and ignore the offers of demons. Sadly, too many lately have succumbed. The Knight Commander has increased the number of Templars protecting the Circle, and she does not hold back from punishment as a deterrent. Some think her methods are too harsh, but I think if it saves even one mage from becoming an abomination, it is worth it._

 

_Anders, if you ever get tired of killing darkspawn and eating that 'Grey Warden slop' as you call it, the Kirkwall Circle could really do with someone of your talents. You could eat Kirkwall Circle slop! I can't guarantee it's better, but there's plenty of it, and people here would benefit from your brand of healing. Please consider it, even for a visit. We are sometimes allowed to see people from outside, and I give the Templars no reason to mistrust me._

 

_Yours ever,_

_Karl.”_

 

He sat holding the letter but not seeing it, lost in thought. Karl had been a constant in Anders' life in one way or another since he arrived at the Tower all those years ago. A few years older, Karl had taken him under his wing, showing him the best places to hide, how to get seconds from the cook, where the dirty bits were in the books in the library. He'd defended him from the other apprentices who teased him about his accent, and helped him learn to talk like a Fereldan. It had been Karl who pierced his ear for him, only requiring a little persuasion and declaring afterward that it looked dashing. He'd listened to Anders' imaginative escape plots, and sat with him in his days of black despair each time he was recaptured. They had been friends.

 

Finally, one night when Anders had been goaded by a particularly sadistic Templar into such depths of self loathing that he had begged Karl to help him end his own life, Karl had held him in his arms. His tear-streaked face held in Karl's gentle hands, feeling his breath so close to his lips, it had seemed only natural to kiss him. Their hands had explored each other's bodies as they kissed, tentatively at first but gradually growing more hungry, until all thought was gone and they had known only passion, thrusting and heaving and grasping blindly for each other in the darkness. Karl had been Anders' first, their lovemaking awakening a burning desire he had been unaware he possessed. His will to live had returned, and he had been happy for the first time since coming to the Tower, imagining a life with Karl as a satisfactory replacement for his freedom.

 

Yet, when Anders had told Karl of his growing love, Karl had turned away.

 

“You can't,” he said. “We can't. This.. this is dangerous. You know the Templars hate you. If they know you care about me, they'll use me to hurt you. That's what they do.” His face hardening, he looked back at Anders.

 

“Forget me,” he had said. “Forget us. It was a mistake. I'm sorry.” And he had gone, leaving Anders hurt and angry, knowing the truth of the words but wanting so deperately to deny them. 

 

“NO!” he had shouted, half screaming. He had run, trying to get away from his hurt, to the library. There he had climbed to the top of the shelves, pried open a window and jumped out, half-hoping to crack his head open on the rocky ground below and end his misery. Instead, he had landed in a snowbank, slid down to the edge of the lake, and oblivious to the icy water, had instinctively started swimming. The Templars had picked him up wandering cold and miserable along the road to Gherlen's Pass three days later, having not eaten or slept. He hadn't even tried to get away that time. That had earned him six weeks in solitary, and when he got out, Karl was gone – transferred to Kirkwall, they told him. Anders had tucked away his hurt and learned his lesson well. Mages did not love – mages flirted and charmed and took pleasure and then they forgot.

 

A year later, a letter had arrived from Karl, and he had replied as if nothing had happened. A distant friend was better than nothing.

 

Anders looked back at the letter. Something was wrong. Karl had always been amused by Anders' desire for freedom but had never shared it, feeling that if the Circle were going to change, it would happen from within. Yet he had never supported punishment as a deterrent, and he shared most mages' horror of Tranquility. To have him mention these things so casually, as if they were normal, was not like Karl. But even more telling, Karl would never ask Anders to come join the Kirkwall Circle. He knew Anders' feelings about the way mages were imprisoned in Circles, and in the past even to joke about such things would have Anders ranting angrily and Karl apologising profusely. What 'talents' could Anders possibly want to offer the Kirkwall Circle? No, Karl was trying to tell him something, something disguised between the mild newsy lines in a way that would get past the Templar censors. 

 

_We must go to Kirkwall. It is our duty._

 

Anders hadn't thought much past getting to Gwaren, maybe catching a ship to.. somewhere away from here. But as thoughts of Karl and Kirkwall ran through his mind, he was filled with a sense of purpose. The vague idea of helping mages that had driven his agreement with Justice suddenly crystallised. Here was something he could do, a tangible way of helping, that didn't involve tearing the head off every Templar in Thedas, that didn't involve Vengeance. He and Justice could still work together! They would go to Kirkwall and help Karl. 

 

Feeling satisfied, he folded the letter away. He had a future, and a purpose, and for now, that was good enough.

 


	12. Sharing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders finds a decent bed to sleep in, and uses it to its fullest advantage. Justice approves. NSFW.

 

The sun was slanting low over the horizon the next day when Anders walked over the bridge into the small village. It nestled in the fork where two rivers met, a smattering of buildings gathered around a large grassy area with a street running along one side that contained a number of market stalls, already closed for the day. On the north side of the square was a small Chantry surrounded by trees, which caused him to hesitate out of sight until he'd satisfied himself that there were no Templars. This village really wasn't big enough to warrant a Templar presence, he reminded himself. Facing the Chantry on the opposite side of the square was an inn. An inn! He brightened and headed towards it, thinking of warm fireplaces and meat, and bread, and people. 

 

As he passed between the houses, he couldn't help but notice that even this far north, small signs of the Blight were in evidence. Not many - a dead tree here, a strange-looking fungus there - but enough to make him wonder what the land looked like closer to Lothering. It had been six months since the death of the Archdemon and two months since the last darkspawn were seen in Ferelden, but the recovery would be long and slow. It looked as though the people here were doing their best to put it behind them - the houses looked clean and in good repair, the grass on the green had been newly cut, and bunting hung from the tops of the market stalls. He imagined this village had probably benefited from the fall of Lothering. Given what they had been through, he couldn't begrudge them that.

 

The sign over the door was freshly painted and depicted a young girl in a blue bonnet standing beside a flock of white geese. "The Goose Girl's Rest" the sign proclaimed. Inside it looked like every other inn he'd ever been in - dimly lit with tables scattered about, a large fireplace, and a wooden bar at one end with a rotund man behind it polishing mugs. Two old men playing cards at one of the tables looked up at his entry, but other than that the place was empty. A door beside the bar must lead to the upper floor, he thought. 

 

As he hesitated in the doorway, the innkeeper called out "Come on in, then, and shut the door, you'll let all the warm air out!" Anders did as he was told and approached the man.

 

"What'll it be, then?" asked the innkeeper, smiling. 

 

***

 

Upon waking in a bed for the first time in weeks, Anders luxuriated in the feeling of soft sheets against his naked skin. Squirming this way and that, he rolled around just to feel the linen sliding across him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to sleep naked, and the feeling of freedom in that simple thing brought a sense of all being right with the world. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to shatter the illusion, and listened to the small sounds of other people moving around outside his room. He could hear the banging of pots from the kitchen and the chattering of laundry maids as they hung out the first lot of sheets for the day. Homely, domestic sounds. He had missed that. Sleepily he yawned and rolled onto his back.

 

Last night over a meal of mutton and bread and ale, he had learned that he was in West Fork, the northernmost village in the arling of South Reach. While the rest of the arling had been overrun with darkspawn in the Blight, West Fork had remained largely untouched due to its proximity to the South Reach fortress and the number of troops that passed through from Denerim. The village existed mainly to service the nearby farms and as a collection point for trade goods, and the stable behind the inn acted as a waystation where travellers changed horses on their way west. Strangers were a common sight here, and nobody had been too curious about him. It suited him perfectly.

 

A pulling sensation in his groin brought his awareness back to his body. One hand sliding slowly down toward his thighs and the other reaching above his head as he stretched, he touched flesh and found himself hard. Like a bolt of electricity, pleasure shot through him and he gasped, eyes flying open, then relaxing as a slow smile spread across his face. He had forgotten about this. It had been his habit in the mornings for as long as he could remember, a simple reminder of the pleasure of being alive and the freedoms that nobody could take from him. Even in the cramped shared living of the Tower and the Keep, there was a tacit understanding that people allowed each other moments of privacy, and he had used them to their full advantage. But lately he had been .. distracted. 

 

_Not any more._

 

Slowly he began to stroke himself, gently at first, tentatively, as if this tenuous pleasure might disappear if he tried too hard to possess it. Closing his eyes, his head fell back against the feather pillow and his lips parted, tongue darting briefly across them as his breathing became harder. Maker, this felt good! His hand moved faster, bringing waves of sensation that spread from the centre, wiping out all other awareness and focusing his entire being on his body and the pleasure it was feeling. Each wave grew bigger, stronger, until he felt he would be swept away, back arched and panting in short, gasping breaths.

 

_I like this thing._

 

The hand stopped. What? Of all the times to be.. Justice! Frowning, he took his hand away and sighed heavily. How could he enjoy this when he felt like he was being watched? It was.. wrong, that's what it was! Andrate's flaming knickers! He rolled onto his side and punched the pillow, frustrated.

 

_But.._

 

That stray thought was just as much an expression of his own enjoyment as.. anyone else's, and he couldn't help but agree with the sentiment. He _did_ like this! He definitely didn't want to give it up. And if Justice liked it too, then maybe it was something he could show the spirit about the beauty of the world. He certainly knew a thing or two about bodily pleasure - he just needed to stay focused on the task at hand. 

 

Slowly, his hand crept back downwards, and he sent a tiny crackle of electricity through his fingertips. Lightning wasn't that great in combat but it was a popular spell, and the masters would smirk and oblige whenever another teenage apprentice would come and ask to learn it. Drawing in his breath sharply, he thanked the Maker for lightning. 

 

Soon all thoughts of spells were forgotten and he was awash in sensation again, hips bucking rhythmically in time with his hand, his other hand clutching the sheets beneath him spasmodically, breath catching in his throat. Briefly he tried to slow his movements, to savour this moment, but it had been too long and this pleasure was like none he had felt before. It built up and up beyond the point where it should have tipped him over the edge, till his eyes rolled back and his head thrashed from side to side, no longer thinking but _feeling,_ his entire body riding on a wave of ecstatic sensation that never seemed to end. Cracks appeared in his skin, the intense blue light bursting through into the room, but he was completely unaware as the power of his orgasm swept through him, wracking him with spasms of pleasure until he finally collapsed, panting, and the room came slowly back into focus.

 

Drifting blissfully in the aftermath of his pleasure, he found himself wanting to do it again. A wry grin spread over his face.

 

_That's not how it works._

 

He had never in his life experienced pleasure that intense – even his fumblings as an apprentice when he had first discovered it was good for more than just peeing standing up, had not been like that. He had sneaked off at every opportunity to a quiet room, a cupboard, sometimes even behind the shelves in the library for a chance to pleasure himself, and he had thought there was nothing grander. But this, this was something else again. This was his body's remarkable capacity for pleasure combined with the power of a Fade spirit, and it was both intriguing and overwhelming. He grinned. If that was the result of letting Justice watch, then he was all right with that. He could see a lot of exploration in his future. But first, he should clean himself up. 

 


	13. Holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders discovers it's a festival day, makes a new friends, and wonders what happened to his smoothness.

Washed and shaved and coin in hand, Anders made a beeline for the market and the stall selling fruit. He had seen it open from the window of his room, the striped awning propped out on poles to shade the wares, while the vendor placed boxes of brightly coloured produce on display. His mouth watering, he tried to decide between strawberries and apples, eventually opting for the sweetness of the strawberries that were filling his nostrils with the scent of summer.

 

"A good choice, ser." came a soft, lilting voice. "I can never resist the first strawberries of the season either." Anders looked up into the smiling green eyes of the vendor and felt an unexpected shock of attraction. He saw dark hair worn in the traditional Ferelden plaits, full lips were parted in a smile, a hand held out to take his coin. But mostly.. oh Maker, she looked just like the Warden Commander! Anders' mind went blank. 

 

"Uh.. how much?" he asked, mentally casting around for something witty or charming to say and finding nothing. "For the strawberries I mean." 

 

She looked taken aback. Of course for the strawberries, thought Anders, what else would I be implying? Oh. Oh bollocks. Now would be a good time to say something flirty, something funny, something..

 

"I'm sorry, it's just.. you look just like someone I know." Internally cringing at himself. "It's distracting." He tried a smile. To his surprise she smiled back and eyed him appreciatively.

 

"Tell you what, you can have them in exchange for a dance at tonight's festival." At his blank look, she enlarged. "Summerday festival? Dancing? The parade'll be starting any minute." She pointed over towards the green where he could now see a group of people constructing what looked like a small stage. "You didn't know it was Summerday?" she asked. "Where have you been?"

 

Anders thought back. It had been about halfway through Cloudreach when he'd left Denerim with the Wardens, but he'd lost track of the days between Perris's farm and now. He guessed it could be Summerday. But, dancing? At a festival? In the Tower they didn't celebrate the annums - except All Souls' Day - and he'd never been to a festival before. He had some idea of how to dance from the lessons they'd all been subjected to .. he supposed he could, but he was having trouble concentrating with the nearness of this woman and his attraction to her and the feeling that he shouldn't do it but at the same time he wanted to so badly and ..

 

"Hello?" She waved a hand in front of his face and he started back.

 

"Oh! Uh.. I.. uh.. Yes!" he blurted out before he could change his mind. Oh Maker, I used to be so much better at this, he thought, embarrassed at himself. "I'll dance with you." He smiled again and was rewarded when her eyes lit up with glee and she gave him a slow smile that seemed filled with promise. He felt a stirring in his groin and was thankful for his long tunic. 

 

_What is wrong with me?_

 

"Well, that's settled then," she said brightly. "See you tonight. Happy Summerday!"

  
Anders walked away in a daze, clutching his strawberries and alternately berating himself for his lack of smoothness, churning in anticipation, and fighting down a sudden desire to go and pleasure himself again. Somewhere in his mind there was a stern voice admonishing him that this was a bad idea, he should lay low, keep out of trouble, not involve himself with other people, but he squashed it. It had been so long since he did anything fun, and it was just dancing. Surely no harm could come of that.

 

Wandering the stalls in search of an apothecary, his eye was drawn by one of those tiny fortune-teller booths that every village seemed to have, decorated garishly with mystical symbols and smelling of incense. As well as fortunes for a copper, his one offered the tattoos that Fereldans were so fond of, and various kinds of jewellery. His eye was drawn to the earrings, and he found himself absently rubbing the scar tissue where his own had been. He'd been fond of that earring – it had annoyed masters and Templars alike but the apprentices had loved it, and it made him feel like a rebel. He guessed he really was a rebel now, he thought wryly. But when he thought about getting a new piercing to replace his old one, his mind filled with reasons not to and he decided quickly that he did not wish to mutilate his body in that way any more. At least, he thought it was his decision. His thoughts were still his own, weren't they? He reflected on his stilted conversation with the fruit vendor, and wondered how much of his happy-go-lucky persona had gone with the earring. He seemed to have lost his ability to flirt, or even to be anything but honest and direct. He shook his head. Maybe a break was just what he needed.

 

Suddenly a drum began to beat and the street began to fill with people. On the green by the stage, a small group of young men and women appeared, all dressed in white tunics and herded by a Chantry sister. As other instruments joined in to make a kind of march, the group of young people paraded solemnly around the green and through the street in time with the music. In contrast with the seriousness of the procession, as the young men and women passed by, people shouted ribald comments at them, often calling them out by name, to roars of laughter from the crowd. The members of the procession tried to maintain an air of dignity, but more than a few of them were red in the face and hiding grins. Small children ran along behind throwing handfuls of brightly-dyed grains, and older people threw paper streamers. As the parade disappeared into the Chantry, a crowd gathered out front, chanting rhymes that he couldn't quite make out. Finally, the Chantry door closed and the crowd slowly dispersed, mostly in the direction of the stage on the green. It seemed Summerday celebrations started early.

 

"Don't know what they're letting themselves in for," said a voice at his shoulder. "I remember my Summerday, it were depressing hearing all that Chantry stuff about responsibility this, duty that. I couldn't wait to get to the dancing after. That's where my real life as a man started!" An elbow in his ribs was followed up by a knowing chuckle. Anders turned to see an old man grinning toothlessly at him, eyes glittering suggestively. Anders smiled politely. He didn't really know what to say.

  
"Aye, but I've no doubt you remember yours just as well," said the man. "Probably better, what with being young and all. I'm too old for Summerday shenanigens these days, so just you make sure you get double for me!" and he cackled loudly to himself as he wandered off.

 

Anders was nonplussed. He had no idea what the old man had been talking about, but it sounded lewd. He had nothing against lewd, but a vague sense of uneasiness was uncurling in his belly. What had he let himself in for? Blinking, he grinned. Fun, remember? His first festival, a pretty girl, a decent meal.. what did he have to worry about? Deliberately pushing away the feeling, he wandered over to the stage and stood at the back of the crowd, munching on strawberries. A performance was going on that seemed to involve two acrobats doing some very complicated juggling while balancing on each other in various poses. They wore bright paint on their faces and strange, decorated clothing that reminded him of the pictures he'd seen in books about Orlais. The people watching clapped in rhythm with their movements, and cheered whenever they pulled off a particularly hard trick. When they dropped a ball, the cheering was even louder and came with friendly ribbing. Anders watched, fascinated. He'd heard of travelling acrobats and minstrels, but he'd never seen any. It seemed this was going to be a day of firsts. 

 


	14. Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders buys some potions, gets freaked out by the apothecary, and makes a potentially dangerous decision.

Eventually the acrobats stopped to rest in the shade and were replaced by a young man with a fiddle, and Anders remembered his mission to find an apothecary. Finishing the last of the strawberries, he headed back to the market. It was overflowing with people all dressed in their best clothes, milling around and giving off a general air of excitement. He could see wagons unhitched on the other side of the row of houses, and the large field behind the inn was filling with horses as people came in from the farms around the area. The noise and chatter reminded him of the market in Denerim, surging around him and drowning out individual voices in the general hum and buzz. Passing a stall selling some kind of confection, Anders was suddenly brought up short, feeling a tingle on his senses, very faint, but pulling him insistently away from the crowd, past a man waving toffeed apples in his face "Only ten coppers, cheap at twice the price, get your Summerday apples here!", and into a dark doorway that he hadn't noticed before. Opening the door warily, he heard a tinkling noise and found himself in a tiny shop lined with shelves to the ceiling, each stacked with bottles and jars and pots, hundreds of them covering all available surfaces.

He closed the door, surprised by the sudden silence. The tingling was stronger in here, seeming to stroke his soul gently with teasing fingers, making him draw breath faster. Was that.. lyrium? He couldn't just ask - lyrium was prohibited outside the Circles and the Chantry, and to ask for it would brand him instantly as either an addict or an apostate. This place might have the other things he needed, though. Bracing himself against the seductive call, he looked toward the corner where a woman sat watching him and giving the distinct impression of a cat that had just sighted a particularly tasty looking mouse. This wasn't helped by pale slanted eyes that were almost golden in colour over high cheekbones, and a slight smile playing across a thin mouth. She was wearing a dark green dress that fell to her ankles in soft folds, with a purple shawl wrapped about her shoulders and over her hair. He couldn't tell her age - or indeed anything about her - from her appearance, only that she seemed pleased to see him and that it made him distinctly uncomfortable. 

"Well, well," she said. "What have we here? Please, sit." She indicated a stool not far from her own, and he found himself obeying despite his sudden desire to leave. Her voice was deep and warm, yet somehow edged with steel, and the idea of doing anything but exactly what this woman wanted terrified him. When he was seated, she continued.

"A handsome stranger comes into my little shop, hmm? What could a man such as yourself possibly be needing? An ointment? Something to raise your flag?" She grinned lasciviously. "A love potion maybe? Or perhaps.. " she paused as if listening. "Perhaps something we don't keep on the shelves, something that sings to your soul?" Yellow eyes blinked slowly, fixed on him.

Anders squirmed uncomfortably. "I.. " Right now all he wanted was to go. Or to make the singing stop. How did she know? "I need six elfroot potions. Strong ones." he blurted. 

She sat back, looking mildly disappointed. "Elfroot? Such a pretty little herb. So simple, so boring!" She rose and moved around the counter towards him, stopping just short of touching him and reaching to a shelf above his head. Removing a jar filled with red liquid, she carried it back to the counter and began decanting it into smaller bottles. "Yet the delicate white flower makes a potion red as blood and to drink its juice brings life to that which is beyond hope. So many powerful mysteries hidden within the simplest things!" She levelled her gaze at Anders, who sat rooted to the spot. "What mysteries hide within you, I wonder?"

Anders swallowed hard but didn't speak. The atmosphere in the shop had gathered to a density that was making it hard for him to breathe, and his eyes sought the door, gauging how quickly he could reach it. 

Suddenly the woman laughed merrily, breaking the spell. "I didn't mean to scare you," she said, stoppering the last of six bottles. "Don't mind my ramblings. I'm used to my own company, I forget sometimes how to be with people. That'll be two silver." Handing him a small bag containing the potions, she held out her other hand. "The elfroot's been particularly strong since the Blight and if you're not careful with those your soldier'll stand at attention for the next week!" She laughed at his widening eyes, quickly making his coin disappear in a fold of her dress.

Anders breathed a sigh of relief. It was all right, she was all right, he had imagined it. The lyrium song had quieted to a pulse in his heightened senses, he could leave. But as he turned to go, a hand snaked out and grasped his wrist, turning him back to face her. Yellow eyes bored into his.

"I see you, mage. I see that you will need my help. I will be waiting." A matter of fact statement, brooking no argument. Anders tore his wrist from her grasp and bolted for the door.

***

He stayed in his room with the door locked for the rest of the day, stealing glances out the window at the celebrations on the green. His bag was packed, he'd paid up his room and he was ready to leave as soon as it got dark. 

Mage. Even thinking of her mouth forming the word chilled him. She knew! Pacing, he tried to stay calm. It was only one person. Nobody here knew his name. He could run tonight, get into the hills, head for Gwaren in the morning. Everything would work out Why wasn't it getting dark yet? Impatiently he glared out the window at the slowly sinking sun, at the swelling crowd gathering around the small stage on the green. It seemed everyone in town was out there now, and the market was closing. He watched as the striped awning of the fruit stall was pulled down and its occupant disappeared into one of the nearby houses.

_You owe her._

He almost laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of the thought. Owe? The promise of a dance? It wasn't even a real exchange! He could break that promise and leave without her seeing him and she would be none the wiser..

_To leave without payment is theft._

Shit. Clenching his fists, he paced even faster, spinning when he reached the wall and striding back towards the window, cursing under his breath. A few months ago, he would have thought nothing of stealing off into the night, perhaps filching a few apples from the closed stall as he passed. He was a master of unrepentant deviousness, a few months ago. Now, he suddenly had a conscience, one that spoke to him in the voice of Justice. And it was telling him he must settle his debt with the fruit vendor before leaving.

He could give her coin. He could walk out there in the gathering dusk, and hand her a few coins, then be on his way. No explanations, no dancing. No accusing stares from villagers, no Templars, no..

_That woman said she would help._

He shook his head. He didn't even want to think about what the rest of the woman's words meant. He would need her help. She would be waiting. Well, he wouldn't be here! Having come to a decision, he picked up his coin purse and strode from the room.


	15. Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders attends his first festival and gets himself in a spot of bother with the fruit vendor.

Finding the fruit vendor in the crowd proved harder than Anders had thought. People were milling about carrying tankards and blankets and food, calling out to friends, singing, laughing as they went. In one area lit by lanterns strung high on poles, dancing had begun as a drummer and fiddler played together. People dressed in costume danced through the crowd, handing out treats and drinks. A mug of ale was thrust into his hand and without thinking, he took several swallows. Thinking she might be closer to the stage, he tried to move in that direction, glancing into faces as he passed, sometimes receiving nods of greeting or smiles, but never a look of recognition. More musicians joined in and the music grew louder as he approached the edge of the dancing, the drums sounding a lively rhythm as the crowd swayed and moved in time.

Anders found himself swaying along with them. Despite his better judgement, he was enjoying himself. It was his first festival after all, and the excitement of the crowd was contagious. The ale tasted pleasantly bitter on his tongue and calmed his edginess, and the music made him want to move his body. He moved to take another swallow of ale, and was mildly disappointed to find his mug empty. As he stood looking around, someone passed him another ale and he downed it, throwing caution to the wind. Nobody was looking at him accusingly, and even if the woman in the shop had reported him, there would be no Templars here tonight. Briefly the notion that he really should be leaving anyway passed through his mind, but he shoved it aside as a pretty girl danced past, taking his hands and drawing him into the whirling group on the dance floor. Tomorrow he would go back to his duty. Tonight he would be just another Summerday reveller.

The rhythm of the dance was a simple one and the steps familiar enough so that he could follow along, grinning as he lined up in rows, promenaded and spun from partner to partner. At the end of the dance, someone else grabbed him and he found himself holding a hand either side as a circle formed, spinning around another circle of dancers within. The circles spun in opposite directions until the music changed, when they suddenly stopped and Anders found himself face to face with the fruit vendor. Laughing, she grabbed his hands and dragged him into the centre, performing an intricate series of steps that he tried to follow as best he could, whirling out and around and back into her arms, always close, never touching. Then the music changed again and he was back in the circle, holding hands with the fruit vendor on one side and a dark-haired, bearded young man who was casting him appreciative looks on the other. She leaned in and whispered in his ear.

"I wasn't sure you would come. I'm glad you did. I'm Grace."

He smiled back at her. "I wouldn't miss it." he said. There was something he was supposed to do, he remembered. Something about Grace. But right now he couldn't remember what it was and he was distracted by how much like the Warden Commander she looked - although he'd never seen the Warden Commander in a soft blue dress that flashed glimpses of her thighs when she spun.. a familiar arrow of attraction shot through him and, not knowing what to do with it, he stared at her just a little too long before spinning away to face his other partner. Her mouth dropped open slightly and when he spun back, she returned his look with equal passion. Laughing together, they whirled around and around as the drums pounded.

He didn't know how long they danced, but when the music changed again for a slower rhythm, Anders noticed that the dance floor was emptying out as people quietly made for more private locations. Looking across at Grace, her flushed face, her fast breathing, her green eyes so like the ones he'd dreamed about for months, he wanted her. Just drunk enough to do something about it, he fastened his eyes on hers and took her hand, walking backward as he led her away from the remaining dancers and out of the circle of light. At least he remembered how to do that part, he thought. Once they were surrounded by darkness he picked up his pace and they ran, hand in hand, until they came stumbling and giggling to the trees. Pushing her up against a broad tree trunk, he brought his lips within an inch of hers, whispering "I want you" before taking them in a kiss that burned with unexpressed passion. She met him willingly, her tongue exploring his mouth as he pushed his body up against her, feeling her warmth through the thin fabric of their clothing. Maker's breath, her skin was so hot! Her hands moved up to the back of his neck, fumbling in his hair to remove the leather thong that held it back, allowing it to fall in a screen across his face.

Pulling apart gasping, Anders removed his coat and laid it on the ground, sitting and pulling her down beside him for another kiss. Slowly they laid back and he allowed his hands to move over her bare arms, reminding himself not to use lightning, instead tracing the lines delicately with just the tips of his fingers. She shuddered quietly, then moved until she was laying full length alongside him, pressing herself against him, waking a familiar sense of need in his groin. Brushing his lips lightly against hers, he pressed back, hips moving against her slowly, languidly. Lost in the moment, drunk with ale and the scent of her wanting him and the anticipation of things to come, he wanted to take his time.

_You do not love her._

The thought cut through his desire like a knife, making him pull his hands away from Grace's body with a jerk. What? Since when did that matter? She was here, she was willing, she looked like the Warden Commander..

_She is not the Warden Commander and you do not love her._

Grace opened her eyes and stared at him as he stiffened next to her, fighting himself. He wanted hold onto her and bury himself in her, losing himself in her closeness and letting the pleasure of her body fill his sudden desperate need to feel as if he were still human. Just as much he wanted to push her away and run, berating himself for using her as a replacement for something he was too cowardly to deserve. Lyrium tasted of metal in his throat as blue light burst briefly from tiny cracks in his skin, the ale dissolving his control as easily as a paper shield. He fought to suppress it but it was too late - Grace's eyes widened then narrowed and she scrambled to stand, pushing away and standing out of his reach, arms folded across her chest.

"What are you?" The tremble in her voice made him look up at her, eyes alternately flashing blue and amber.

"I.." The voice that came out was deep, resonant.. not his. "I am sorry, serah." He looked away, unable to meet her eyes as she flinched from him.

"You.. " she hesitated. ".. abomination!" Then she ran.

In his ale-fuddled mind it was the Warden Commander who turned away from him.. no, it was Arnaud, and he tasted blood and lyrium and shame as he picked himself up off the ground and stumbled blindly away from the lights, the dancing, away from people who would call him mage and abomination and lock him up because he was dangerous and inhuman and..

_Enough!_

The thought hit him like a slap, stopping him in his tracks. He was not an abomination! Justice was not a demon! His eyes flashed blue. That.. creature of Vengeance could be controlled and he had proved it. His magic was a gift, a gift he would use in conjunction with the spirit to help his fellow mages. It was his duty, and it was all that mattered. The light in his skin slowly dimmed and, squaring his shoulders, he set about putting distance between himself and the village.


	16. Assistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He should have known this would happen.

He had gone about a mile when he began to feel as if he were being watched. Stopping to look around, he saw nothing, heard nothing. With all senses on full alert, he continued slowly, trying to keep his movements silent and wishing he'd specialised in Survival instead of Runecrafting. Faintly at first but then more strongly, the sweet vibration of lyrium sang through him, bringing a flush of mixed excitement and fear. Eyes wide, he jumped at a sudden whooshing noise behind him and spun around, only to find nothing there. He turned to keep walking and was brought up short by the sight of the woman from the apothecary, leaning on a staff in the dim moonlight and looking at him with amusement.

"I said you would need my help, didn't I? Now here you are. And here I am, waiting." A low chuckle came from her throat. "So, mage. Will you run again? Or stay?" 

Anders forced himself to stay where he was. "Who are you? What do you want with .." - he bit off the urge to say 'us' - ".. me?" 

"I am someone who can help you," she said. "And it seems you are not in a position to refuse, yes?" Yellow eyes bored into his.

Again Anders felt like a mouse pinned under the gaze of a hungry cat. "How do I know you're not lying?" he asked belligerently, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice and, he thought, succeeding.

"Notice the lack of pursuit by angry villagers with pitchforks." The woman stared at him pointedly. "They know nothing of what you are. I have already helped you. No," she held up a hand as Anders tried to interrupt, "The girl is not hurt. She will wake tomorrow and have.. fond memories of her evening with you." She chuckled again. "Come, I have prepared a place for you." Turning, she strode away without looking back.

Anders fell into step behind her, feeling very much as if he would rather be going in any other direction, yet unable to deny that the absence of angry villagers did point to her being on his side. He couldn't help also feeling curious. She carried a staff - maybe she was another mage? The lyrium song that seemed to surround her was another mystery, one that drew him to her irresistibly despite his fear. And he still hadn't got a good look at her.

They walked for several hours, the ground steadily rising under their feet and becoming more rocky and broken as the trees gave way to low scrubby bushes and the path they followed began to wind between large boulders. Eventually the woman stopped at the mouth of a narrow ravine. The sky over the peaks to the east of them was just starting to show the first traces of dawn as she handed Anders a water bottle. Beginning to feel the aftereffects from the ale the night before, he took it gratefully and drank deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He was just beginning to draw mana to heal his headache when the woman spoke.

"You should let yourself feel that, as a reminder for the next time you are tempted."

Anders looked at her in surprise. Maker! She was a mind reader too? Did that mean.. ?

"No, I am not a blood mage," the woman said, "Just observant. And perhaps familiar with magic they don't teach in your Circles." Pulling her shawl around her against the chill, she turned and disappeared into the shadows of the ravine. Anders followed, curiosity now burning enough to overcome his fear of her. 

"How did you recognise me?" he ventured. "As a mage, I mean." He wasn't sure she would answer - so far she had been pretty cryptic - but to his surprise, she did.

"I felt your magic when you arrived in the village. You don't hide it well for an apostate." He supposed it was obvious that he wasn't a Circle mage any more. But.. felt his magic? He'd never heard of that before.

"And your.. friend.. does not hide his reaction to my lyrium well either." She turned then, catching the shocked look on Anders' face, and smiled brightly. "Come, there will be time for questions later."

At the top of the ravine the walls opened out into a broad, flat area flanked by granite cliffs, sparsely covered in spiky mountain grasses. One side of the clearing looked back out over the Bannorn, the spectacular view revealing itself as the sun tipped over the hills above and causing Anders' breath to catch in his throat. He stood transfixed as the vista lit up before him, the river a tiny snake in the distance, the village of West Fork barely visible and seeming much further away than he thought possible. They had climbed a long way in the night. 

The creak of a door opening tore his attention from the view. Tucked back against a cliff on the other side of the clearing was a small hut of maybe three rooms, built of timber and thatch. A fire pit in front of the hut showed signed of recent use, and wooden benches ran along the walls each side of the open door. The woman was standing beside it, beckoning him over. When he reached her, she gestured for him to enter and he obeyed, ducking under the low doorway as he crossed the threshold. Inside he could see a table and several chairs beside a large cooking fireplace. The table held a deck of cards and a book, and he could see stacked on the shelves enough plates and cups for several people. It seemed this place was lived in, and whoever lived here was not alone. Right now, though, it was empty.

The woman ushered him through that room and into a smaller one at the back. This room held three beds, a washstand with a jug of water and a large bowl, and a locked chest. On the bed furthest from the door was.. his backpack? He looked at the woman, a question in his eyes.

"I took the liberty of having your things sent up. It seemed.. prudent." She looked levelly at him as if challenging further questions, and Anders kept quiet, thinking to himself that even in daylight he could not discern her age. The deep, husky voice was no help. "You must have many questions. Later, we will talk. For now, rest." She turned and left the room, closing the door.

With the thrilling song of lyrium fading to a quiet whisper, Anders became painfully aware of how tired he was. His head ached and his feet hurt and his mouth tasted like something had died in it, and he had been awake since the previous morning. Even though he had no real idea of where he was or who he was with, he couldn't deny that he'd been rescued from a tricky situation and it seemed that for the time being he was safe. Based on his own reaction to her, she could probably strike fear into the heart of the staunchest enemy. Despite the vague sense of disquiet that came with the woman's presence, he found himself stretching out on the bed and closing his eyes.


	17. Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of Anders' past is revealed to Justice in the Fade. Mildly NSFW, implied non-con.

He woke on a bed in the centre of a forest of floating trees, each seeming to flow around the others in a stately dance, their roots entwining briefly with each other as they passed as if in greeting. It was the same bed, a narrow cot with a plain headboard, a grey wool blanket and a thin pillow. Justice had come to understand that Anders always dreamed from this bed, although he could not comprehend why. That part of Anders' memory was closed even to him. 

He tried to sit up and found he was restrained by a weight across his body - an arm and a leg, laid over him in a sleeping embrace. After last time he was not sure he wished to see the face of his companion but he looked anyway, noting the expression of abandonment on the soft countenance of a woman that was-but-wasn't the Warden Commander. As he gazed at her in wonder, green eyes opened and a smile spread slowly across her face. A hand moved to stroke his chest lightly, and a soft voice spoke.

"I want you." The hand moved slowly downwards, tracing small circles that felt like fire on his skin.

He did not know what to do. Every fibre of his being screamed that no, this was wrong, he did not love her, he could not - and yet the way his body arched up to meet her, the pleasure coursing through him, singing like lyrium but in body not spirit, was so similar to when Anders had touched himself yet somehow infinitely better. He had been surprised by this body's response when that happened, then fascinated, then ecstatic, and he had been able to expand his being without restraint, without resistance, and without harm to his host. In that state, Anders' body became a conduit for a pleasure that was purely physical and yet harmonised perfectly with the Fade spirit's energy. It had been quite remarkable, and Justice had once again been astounded at the mortal's capacity to feel. He was also secretly pleased to be able to share the experience with his friend, and wanted to do more of it.

And yet, when they had been with that other woman, this woman, all he could think about was Aura - Kristoff had loved his wife deeply, and his memory of their moments of intimacy was nothing like the befuddled lust of last night. The idea of sharing that intimacy with another person without also feeling deep love reduced it to shallow rutting and filled Justice with disgust. He had recoiled from her and the ensuing battle of wills had frightened her away. Justice had been relieved to be spared from further interactions with the girl, and pleased to get back to their duty. He resolved to discourage Anders from drinking ale in the future.

The hand was now wrapped around him, moving slowly along his skin and causing small shudder to run through him despite himself. He could see the curve of her cheek, smiling at the arousal she had awoken in him. He found himself fascinated by the lines of her body, wanting to touch that smooth skin as she stretched and relaxed, pushing herself against him. Slowly, licking her lips, she moved to take him in her mouth. 

_You want her too._

Justice could feel himself giving in to Anders' desire, wanting to feel it again, sensing through his fear that he would be rewarded with even greater heights of pleasure if he only let go and relinquished control of this body and let the lust he was feeling run free..

Aura's face flashed in front of his eyes. "No!" he shouted. "This is not love! This is a distraction! I will not do this with you!" With an effort of will, he grabbed the hand that was wrapped around his shaft and tore it away, picking Grace up bodily and throwing her from the bed. She disappeared and Justice lay panting, a sense of disappointment fighting with the knowledge that he had done the right thing. At least Anders' lust was easier to defeat than his anger. He shuddered again at what he had almost done, and vowed never to allow them to be that intimate with someone they did not love.

_Yet we shared it together._

Given that they already shared a body and their thoughts were becoming increasingly difficult to separate, yes, Justice supposed that he did love Anders. Not in the way Kristoff had loved Aura, but love nonetheless. He had not thought that possible when they first met, but now..

A gauntleted hand crept up over the edge of the bed, followed by a helmeted head with the visor pulled down, only a glitter of eyes showing through the dark horizontal slit. When Justice saw the flaming sword insignia on the breastplate, panic rose in him. 

_Templar! Run!_

Before he could move, the armoured figure rose over him and pinned him to the bed by his arms, straddling him and holding him immobile with all the weight of the heavy plate armour. The scarlet skirt flowed across his lower body and off the side of the bed like blood. A hissing voice spoke from inside the helmet.

"You thought you could run, mage? You thought you could hide? You will never escape!" A metal-gloved hand struck him hard across the face. "We know what you are. We have always known what you are, demon." Another blow, the other cheek, blood running into his mouth. Weight shifting onto his thighs, wrists held together in a vice-like grip, spikes digging into flesh. Struggling anyway, succeeding only in sliding further under the heavy body, feeling it pressing against him, moving insistently, armour scraping against his skin drawing blood and even as he struggled Justice's body began to respond.

_Oh no no no no no this is not happening no!_

Flashes in his mind: an armoured body looming over his, helpless to move and hating every moment yet somehow the pleasure was spreading from his centre and he felt the pulse of lyrium and oh it was good but something was wrong

_the templar no don't let him touch me don't let him hurt me again!_

He tried to fight, to keep Anders' panic and rage from overwhelming him, but the song was so sweet and if he just gave in, just let it happen, he would be rewarded..

_NO!_

Blue lightning flickered, reflected from yellow eyes as Anders' panicked gaze passed unseeing over the woman who sat still on the edge of his bed. Clawing with his hands he tried to push her away, to free himself, lips curled back in a feral snarl and blind to everything except the terrible scene that was playing out behind his eyes. She held her ground, calmly reaching out to grasp his wrist as he flailed, pale blue light gathering around her hand and flowing over his cracked skin, seeming to disappear into the fissures and closing them one by one. With a gasp Anders opened his eyes wide, electric blue fading to amber, and stared at her in confusion as his body shuddered once, twice, and again. After a minute he let out a heavy sigh and collapsed back onto the pillow with a groan.

"I hate that one," he said after a while. "Thank you for stopping it."

"I did not stop it, you did. I merely made the transition back to this world a little easier." She looked at his relaxed body, smiling to herself. "I see it worked."

Anders' gaze slid away, embarrassed. "I.. What did you do?"

"Your spirit has a weakness, which I exploited to make it relinquish control when you woke. It was.. overwhelmed." She held up a hand as Anders tried to sit up. "It will recover in a few minutes, and you will be able to rise. There is food and drink. Come and join us when you are ready." She rose and walked to the door, turning at the last minute to look speculatively at him. Quietly, almost under her breath, he heard her speak.

"Justice, hmm? Most interesting.." The door clicked behind her.


	18. Underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders meets some unexpected kindred spirits and learns his infamy goes beyond the borders of Ferelden

Outside, the late afternoon sun fell golden across the grass, giving an impression of warmth belied by the chill breeze.  Anders pulled his coat closer around him and shivered, heading for the fire that was now blazing in the firepit and the large pot that was bubbling above it.  At his approach two people looked up warily, moving aside to allow him to sit but saying nothing, their expressions carefully neutral.  Familiarity tickled his mind, something about the way their eyes didn't quite meet his - he had seen that look before somewhere but couldn't place it.  Carefully avoiding looking directly at them, he studied the two people.  
  
They were both dressed in the style of travelling clothing preferred by rogues, legs stretched out to the fire wrapped in snug leather, calf-length soft boots steaming slightly.  Wool cloaks were slung about their shoulders, although the elf woman's was dropped slightly down her back to reveal two large daggers strapped within easy reach. Her relaxed pose was tempered with a coiled-spring watchfulness, giving the impression that she could transform into a whirling tornado of action at the slightest provocation. Her air of easy assurance was in almost complete contrast to her human companion, who looked distinctly uncomfortable in his clothing as if it didn't quite fit properly.  He fidgeted and picked at a loose thread on his tunic, eyes looking everywhere but at Anders.  Even half-hidden in shadows, his bearded face looked worn and haggard as if he hadn't eaten or slept properly for a long time.  Anders supposed he probably looked the same.  Noticing Anders' gaze on him, he took on a shuttered look and made his face blank, and that's when Anders realised where he knew that look from.  
  
In the Tower, apprentices were sometimes stopped by a Templar for 'inspection'.  What that usually meant was a full body search with the apprentice being required to strip naked and stand straddled with hands on the wall while the Templars ran their hands all over them, ostensibly looking for contraband and all the while passing humiliating comments.  Anders had been subjected to more than his fair share of 'inspections', and he recognised the studied blankness he saw on this man's face as a reflection of the one worn by anyone who witnessed them.  It said plainly, "I didn't see anything" and helped to dull the shame for both witnesses and victims.  By the time they were Harrowed, most mages wore that look habitually.  Despite the rogue leathers and the absence of a staff, Anders was sure this man was a Circle mage.  
  
Swallowing the anger he felt stirring inside him at the memory, he was about to open his mouth to introduce himself when they were joined by the woman who had brought him here.  
  
"Ah, good, I see you're all getting acquainted," she said.    
  
The woman in leathers snorted.  "If by acquainted, you mean 'avoiding each other's eyes and maintaining stony silence' then yes, I suppose we are getting along famously."  Anders looked at her again, impressed despite himself.  That's what he would have said - if he'd thought of it. Instead, he cleared his  throat.  
  
"How do I know I can trust any of you?" he said softly.  The bearded man looked at him sharply.  
  
The yellow-eyed woman chuckled. "You don't, is the answer to that. And yet by asking the question, you already reveal yourself.  You trust because you have no other option.  All of you."  She looked around sternly.  "Now, come, this is no way to introduce ourselves. Let us eat and talk."  She lifted the lid from the pot and scooped out steaming ladles of stew into bowls, handing them around. Everyone ate in silence, nobody wanting to speak first and perhaps expose themselves.  Anders was just considering whether it would be thought rude to get a second helping, when the rogue spoke up.    
  
"I am Miya, and I am guiding Darel here from Gwaren." She gestured toward the bearded man, who looked frightened for a moment before turning back to his stew.  "He is a mage, if that wasn't obvious, newly arrived from the Free Marches.  It's not safe for a mage to travel alone, even in Ferelden."  
  
Anders looked at her.  "Even in Ferelden?" he repeated.  "What does that mean?"  
  
Miya opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted.  "And I am called Caileath," said the yellow-eyed woman. "Amongst other things."  She laughed heartily at her own joke.  "And you?" Staring directly at Anders, her eyes saying she already knew everything about him and daring him to lie.  
  
"I.. uh.." He searched around for that old flippancy.  You, my dear, may call me.. No.  That wasn't right, it was gone, this was serious.  "I am Anders." It was mostly true - it was the only name anyone had used for him since he was 12.  He didn't think he would even respond to his real name now.  
  
Miya snorted again. "We can see that," she said, taking in his reddish-blonde hair and angular features.  "You all look the same."  
  
Anders glared at her.  "Oh yes, very funny, that's a new one.  Have you heard the one about the rogue who..."  
  
"Enough!"  Caileath looked evenly at him.  "Are you going to tell them, or will I?"  
  
Anders looked away.  "I'm a mage.  An apostate.  From the Ferelden Circle. I.." He stopped, unsure what to say next.  Darel was staring at him.  
  
" _The_ Anders?" he said. "The Anders who escaped from Kinloch Hold ten times and was conscripted into the Grey Wardens by the Hero of Ferelden herself?"  His face became animated for the first time.  "You're a legend!  It was you who inspired the mages of the Free Marches to .." he stopped, looking guilty.  
  
"He has to know eventually, Darel." Caileath's voice was gentle.  Darel shook his head, eyes shuttered. Anders could see him struggling against fear.  
  
"Inspired the mages of the Free Marches to.. ?" he tried to smile encouragingly, but wasn't sure it didn't just come out looking like a feral grimace.  Justice had woken at the mention of mages and was lending a level of intensity to the interaction that Anders wasn't sure he could hide.  The other mage desperately avoided his gaze and clammed up.  
  
"To form the Mage Underground," supplied Miya.  "A network of people sympathetic to mages.  We work together to help people who have left the Circle.  In the Free Marches, apostates are not tolerated the way they are here." She raised a hand to prevent Anders from interrupting. "Ferelden is on the verge of disbanding the Circle.  It will be the first country to do so.  Mages from the Free Marches see it as a haven, even though it is not.  Yet." She added.  
  
"Left the Circle?" Anders queried.  "Where I come from, mages don't just leave."  
  
"No," Miya agreed.  "And these ones don't either.  They escape, or are smuggled out with the help of supporters inside the Circle, and then the network helps them to avoid recapture, to start new lives.  Mages from Starkhaven and Tantervale mostly go north to Tevinter, those from Kirkwall come to Ferelden.  My brother was the first mage we successfully brought out. Darel is the fifteenth.  He has people in Haven, and we will make sure he gets there safely.  This place is a waystation, and Caileath and the others keep it stocked with food and clothing.  Nobody else knows it's here."  
  
"Wait.. Kirkwall?"  Anders looked sharply at Darel. "Do you know a mage named Karl Thekla?" He felt his heart beating faster, Justice shifting restlessly, impatient for an answer from the hapless mage.  
  
"I.. yes.  It was him that told us about you, about Ferelden and how it is for mages here. He gave us hope where there was none.. he.." Surprise registered in  Anders' mind - Karl talked about him? An impulsive smile flashed then faded as Darel continued, tears glistening in the man's eyes. "You have no idea what it's like there!" he cried.  "The whole city is sick.  The Knight Commander thinks all mages want to consort with demons, to become blood mages, and her Templars think they can beat it out of us.  People disappear all the time and come back Tranquil.  I've even heard they do it to Harrowed mages.." he trailed off.  
  
Anders was prepared for the sudden surge of anger, putting his hands over his face to cover the brief flicker of blue light that spilled from his narrowed eyes.  Lips curled into a snarl, then relaxed.  He looked up again into Darel's frightened eyes.  "That is against Chantry law," he said coldly. "The Circle is supposed to help and protect mages, not imprison and abuse them." He was amazed at the steadiness in his own voice, if not the newfound resonance.  
  
"Knight Commander Meredith has persuaded the Grand Cleric that discipline is necessary to maintain order." Darel replied, "As long as the occasional blood mage is found and executed, she can be seen to be doing something about 'the mage problem', and is allowed free rein within the Gallows to run the Circle as she sees fit."  Bitterness crept into his voice. "The First Enchanter is powerless.  And the tighter she squeezes us within her iron fist, the more desperate people become.  Some have resorted to blood magic.  You can see where that goes."  
  
Anders could.  It was a vicious cycle that had nearly led to the Annulment of the Ferelden Circle and the execution of every mage in it when one blood mage had tried to take matters into his own hands.  Anders had been in solitary at the time, and only found out about it after he was released.  Discovering how close he had been to being killed solely for having the bad luck to be a mage in the proximity of blood magic had motivated his final escape from the Tower and caused him to hate blood mages almost as much as he hated Templars.  It was because of their power that the Chantry was able to stir up so much fear of mages, even though the majority of mages wanted no more power than the ability to decide for themselves where they lived and what they ate. Any mage could strike a deal with a demon and learn the power of blood magic, and that was enough for the entire mage population to be locked up for everyone else's safety.  
  
Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, Anders tried to calm the anger roiling inside him, to swallow the faint taste of lyrium that rose in the back of his throat as Justice added his agreement.  None of this was new information, and he could not improve things by going on a frightening rampage and alienating these people who were helping him.  He was seized with a driving need to move, to pace, to strike out, to do something, but the problem was so big that he didn't even know where to start.  This was the same feeling that would have him pacing and ranting to Karl in the Tower, while Karl questioned him and argued with him and tried to help him collect his thoughts. He stopped.  Karl.  His mind slid back to the letter.  What Darel was saying gave him more insight into what had Karl writing such cryptic messages and risking the Templars' wrath.  Maybe there was something he could do after all, something beyond 'go to Kirkwall and try to help Karl'.  
  
Darel was continuing.  "Since the Underground, though, things have been better.  There's only been a few so far, but its given everyone hope.  Blood magic and demons aren't the only option any more. I can't say how grateful I am to be out.  I hear life outside the Circle is hard for mages, but it can't be any harder than life in the Gallows.  Can it?"  
  
Anders did not feel he was a good role model for living as a free mage.  "You have the freedom to decide that for yourself, and that's worth more than anything.' He wasn't sure it was what the other man wanted to hear, but it was all he could offer.  Justice had subsided to an insistent tangle of unanswered questions and Anders took a long drink of water to wash the taste from his mouth.  He stood up and started pacing.  
  
"How big is this Underground?" he asked. Darel looked blank and Miya answered for him.  
  
"I don't know.  I only have contact with Caileath and two other people inside Ferelden.  All of my messages come through them. I don't know who they talk to.. I think it's best that way - safer.  Everybody thinks they won't talk if they get caught, but .. " She sniffed.  "It's growing, though, especially in the Free Marches.  There are more people out there who sympathise with mages than the Chantry thinks."  
  
Anders thought of Perris and Norah and nodded.  There were few families that didn't have at least some magic in them, and most people knew someone who had lost a daughter, a brother, a cousin to the Circle.  Miya had taken a risk to help her brother, but now she was continuing to take even bigger risks to help other mages, mages to whom she owed nothing.  Again he was impressed, and more than a little moved.  He was not alone. On the wave of confidence this knowledge brought came the realisation that with the existence of the Underground, he had an opportunity to do something towards the vow he shared with Justice.  Not just his own freedom, not just Karl's.  If enough mages were freed, the Templars wouldn't be able to catch them all.  Mages would begin to live free, and then the world would see they weren't dangerous!  
  
Squatting down and holding his hands out to the fire, he asked the question that had been clamouring in his mind.  "Do you think the Underground could smuggle someone into Kirkwall?"  
  



	19. Union

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caileath's powers give Anders an opportunity to re-evaluate his joining with Justice. They're both surprised by the outcome.

The fire had burned to embers and gave off only a faint light by the time the the rogue and her charge excused themselves. Miya had given him a name to seek in Gwaren and the promise of word sent ahead to make arrangements for his passage, and Darel had filled him in on what he knew of the operations of the Mage Underground in Kirkwall. Admittedly it wasn't much - Karl had told him where to go and made sure he would not be seen, he had met with two people who had led him through a series of tunnels, taken his staff and given him some money and clothes, and then he'd been on a boat. Miya had met him at Gwaren and led him here. Apart from Karl, he didn't know who else was operating inside the Gallows, but he was sure there must be at least one Templar involved. How else could mages slip out so easily?

Darel was yawning and heavy-eyed when Miya led him away, but Anders was wide awake, pacing about and animated, full of passion and plans and the feeling that he was finally 

we are finally

on his way to something important, someting worthwhile, something that would bring justice to every child ever ripped away from his mother to be sent to the Circle.. his mind raced with ideas, feeling alive, capable, powerful. He couldn't wait to get started.

"Sit, child," came Caileath's voice, husky over the settling of dying embers. "You can do nothing tonight. And you still haven't introduced me to your friend."

Anders had almost forgotten Caileath was there. She had sat quietly through the discussions, watching and listening and smiling to herself, contributing little. Now he looked over to where she sat close to the remains of the fire, wrapped in her cloak and looking very ordinary for someone he found so terrifying.

"My friend?" he asked. "You speak as if you are not afraid of me.. us. Do you not think I'm an abomination?"

Caileath threw back her head and laughed, full and throaty. "That, my young friend, is a good question. I think you are very brave, or very stupid. Perhaps both. But your spirit is no demon, and together you are not an abomination. Yet." The last word was punctuated with a piercing look. If her eyes flashed golden for a split second, Anders put it down to a trick of the light. One hand indicated a space on the bench next to her. "Please, sit with me." 

Anders sat, staring silently into the fire. Yet? What did that mean? He could feel Justice prowling around the edges of his mind, wanting to step forward and confront this strange woman, indignant. 

Yet?

He jumped when the woman began to speak. "You have always felt the call of freedom, mage, held above all else within yourself as an ideal to which you aspire. And yet, if you cage yourself within the desire for freedom, are you truly free?"

He stared at her, uncomprehending. "Cage myself? I don't understand."

"Ha!" she chortled. "And well you don't, or you might never have chosen this path, and where would the world be then? Such great changes to be wrought, so reliant on the choices of men. I wonder what you will choose, in the end?"

Anders sighed with frustration. "Stop speaking in bloody riddles!" he said. "If you have something to say, just say it." Blue flicker across amber eyes, a slight curl of the lip. 

"So impatient, so eager!" Caileath smiled. "Good. You will need that drive. Keep it, hone it, use it like a sword. But remember, every sword has two edges." She reached for his hand. "I would like to speak with you both." 

As her hand closed around his wrist he felt a wrenching twist inside his mind that thrust burning, slicing pain through the core of his being, a tearing of his soul that forced his mouth into a silent scream. He felt his soul pouring out of him and was sure he was going to die, frozen and helpless in agony. Almost immediately the song of lyrium suffused his mind, soothing, washing over the gaping wound and healing it.

Gaping wound?

Tentatively, he cast around his mind behind closed eyelids, trying to feel what had torn, what was different. Caileath was still holding his wrist, his body felt as if it was still intact, there was no pain, but,something was missing. He felt.. off balance, strangely empty. Groping around in his mind, he tried to find 

Justice?

Nothing. No familiar stirring sensation, no taste of lyrium on his tongue, no answer. Panic flared, but there was no surging response of power. There was nothing, only a void in his mind, into which he whispered desperately.

Justice?

It was no use. He was alone. His eyes flew open and he found himself staring directly into piercing blue ones through the slit in an old-fashioned steel helmet. The figure stood beside Caileath in full plate armour, wrist grasped in her other hand, apprearing solid and yet shimmering and surrounded by wisps of blue fadelight. Anders licked his lips and swallowed.

"Justice?"

"Anders." The voice so familiar, yet sounding so strange, hollow with the echo of separation.

"What .. what happened?" Anders' foice felt hollow too, lacking resonance.

"It appears this witch has separated us. I do not know how. I am here, but without a body I am powerless to act."

"This.. witch.. is giving you a chance to examine your choices," Caileath spoke, her voice cracked with strain. "I cannot hold you apart for long. Spirit, I cannot return you to the Fade. But I can reverse this union. I will speak with each of you privately and then you each must choose. If either one of you wishes to end this, it shall be done."

She turned to Justice first. Anders slumped a little, eyes going blank. "Spirit, do you not fear being corrupted and becoming a demon?"

Justice was silent for a long time before he spoke. "When I first came to this world, I believed it a harsh, ugly place and wished nothing more than to return to the Fade. I have since learned that this world also contains great beauty. It is confusing, there are no clear lines between good and evil here, instead these things exist in relation to each other.. Yet, within mortals exist both. They do not have the power of spirits, and yet most are good. Every day they choose not to be corrupted by their desires. I have learned that corruption is a choice, and I admire the strength of mortals to resist it." 

"And Anders?" Caileath asked. "Will he always make that choice?"

"I do not know, witch." Justice turned away to stare into the embers. "Being within a living body is.. like nothing I have experienced. To feel as Anders feels, is.. " he waved a gauntleted hand, struggling for words, ".. exhilarating, and sometimes frightening. His body has needs of which I was not aware, and I do not know how to guide him in this." He looked back at Caileath. "This separation, how would it be achieved?"

"Anders must die. There is no other way."

Justice nodded as if he had expected that answer. "Anders is a good man, a healer of others, a man who seeks to see the good in this world. I feel the strength of his desires, and yet he chooses to control them. His mastery over his emotions is admirable." They had already learned the consequences of losing control. "He has shown me that desires can be overcome, and with this knowledge I can remain righteous. I trust him to keep us from corruption and it would be unjust to choose death for him based only on a possibility. I wish to remain joined."

Caileath nodded. "As you will." She turned to Anders, pulsing her strange lyrium field into Justice's apparition until his eyes rolled back and he became unaware.

"Anders. You desire freedom above all else, and yet you have chained yourself to duty. First as a Grey Warden, and now with this Spirit. Do you not desire to be free of duty?"

Anders looked at her and thought of his times on the run from the Circle, of Rolan at the Keep, of Karl's letter from Kirkwall. "I am a mage, and I have come to realise that I will not be truly free until all mages are free. I.." he stopped. He really did believe that - even without Justice in his head, reminding him constantly of his obligation. "I thought being free for myself would be enough, that I was powerless to change anything anyway. That's what the Circle makes us believe. Justice showed me that is not true." 

He remembered how he had met Justice. An entire village of people had been transported to the Fade and were being kept under thrall by a pride demon in the guise of an evil Baroness. Justice had led the people in a rebellion against her, and they had been freed. At the time Anders had seen it as just another completed quest, but later he had realised it was the first time he'd seen a successful uprising against a powerful oppressor, motivated by the Spirit of Justice. The price the spirit had paid for success was to be forced into this world by the Baroness's evil magic. 

"Justice has sacrificed a great deal more than I have. He is not free, he never will be, yet he is willing to give all he is to help me and my kind become truly free. I am willing to sacrifice the illusion of freedom for the duty of creating a just world."

"Ah, but is the price you are willing to pay to achieve this 'just world' the same as the one the spirit would demand?" Caileath's yellow eyes bored into his. He looked away, considering.

"I don't know what Justice will demand. It's not like that - I feel his thoughts as my own, and I decide whether or not to act on them. He has no power that I don't give him." He hoped he sounded more sure than he felt. Thinking back to the scene in the Wending Wood, he suddenly looked over at his friend and asked, "If you separated us, what would happen to Justice?"

"I do not know. Possibly he would simply cease to exist." Caileath shot him a piercing look. "Are you not concerned what would happen to you?"

"Yes," Anders answered truthfully. "But I think I already know. I'd die wouldn't I?" He didn't mention how much of a ghost he already felt without Justice.

Caileath looked surprised. "Yes, you would. And yet you asked after your friend first. A true healer's spirit." She mused quietly. Out loud she said, "Do you not fear becoming an abomination?"

"Justice is not a demon. He told me that demons are spirits corrupted by their desires. Justice has no desires, and he helps me to control mine. He is stronger than me in his convictions, and he lends me his strength to follow mine. I trust him not to allow us to become an abomination, because I trust him not to be corrupted by my weaknesses. Without him, I would give up. I need Justice because the world needs Justice. Please do not deny us that."

"Then you have made your choice?"

"I have." She nodded. Anders looked across at the unmoving figure of the spirit as the woman brought their hands closer together until they were clasped, then stood back and freed them from her grip.

The world spun as the spirit rushed back into him. All his senses electrified at once as a kaleidoscope of thoughts, feelings and pictures rushed through his consciousness and oh it felt good, felt right, as the void within his soul filled with light, an almost orgasmic rush of energy in the rejoining. As his head cleared, he gingerly tested himself. Who am I?

I am Anders.  
I am Justice.  
We are one.

Anders collapsed onto the ground, smiling weakly in relief. They were one. He would never be alone again.


End file.
